The Godwhale (S.F. Masterworks) (21 page)

LEPTOSOUL: DAN WITH THE GOLDEN TOOTH

Click! ARNOLD/Dan nosed the aged beef bone out of the dirt. Chain rattled. With eyes half-closed he savoured the marrow and gristle along with the spices of damp humus.

Dan sniffed the soil, wondering where his other old bone was buried.

‘Cluck. Cluck.’ His wards, the feathered friends in the coop, were upset.

Ears up, he watched the scrub pine. A massive intruder appeared, black and hairy, walking on its hind paws. It had long claws and sharp white teeth. Its body mass was twenty times Dan’s.

‘Cluck. Cluck.’

Dan froze to quiet his chain. The intruder was so intent on the succulent coop dwellers that it failed to notice the circle of dead grass that marked the chain’s end. As its big left hind paw entered the circle Dan leaped and sank his fangs. A hit tibia split and spewed blood. The intruder was down, howling. Claws and teeth ripped Dan’s hide open, snapping his spine and spilling his intestines. Dan worked the crumbling tibia back into his jaw and tightened down on it as darkness swallowed him.

Dan’s leptosoul floated above the gory scene. The bulky intruder limped off with a distinctive lump on its left ankle – Dan’s head. The baying of a pack of hounds and a rifle crack finished Dan’s job on the intruder. Click!

ARNOLD snorted as he strode out of Chapel. Drum was impressed. He stayed behind to study the tapes.

‘What was this creature – Dan with the Golden Tooth?’

Mullah smiled eagerly, ‘These are the most aggressive lepto-soul tapes we could find. We think the subject was a small meat-eating pet that worked for man, protecting him against varmints, big and small. Dan was so vicious he had to be muzzled to be bred.’

‘Why? Couldn’t he recognize a female?’

‘Yes, but he fought anything that came into his territory. Fought for wagers too. And the beast obviously could not tell a bet from a stud fee, so he had to subdue any female he met in order to be safe.’

‘It certainly worked with ARNOLD. Look at these adrenergic readings!’ He handed the printout to Mullah. ‘Shouldn’t we be concerned about building up this “will to win”? Couldn’t this desire for winning the battle evolve into a desire for freedom? Aren’t “life” and “freedom” similar desires?’

‘Not in this case,’ said Mullah, shaking his head. ‘Dan is a genetic warrior – produced by crossing generations of winners. He enjoys a battle for The Win. I doubt if your concepts of “life” and “freedom” even exist in his mind. It sounds odd, but this is a case where concern for “life” can lead to extinction – by making the warrior less effective in battle. He might survive a battle, but a poor showing would mean no reproduction. The genes for judgment would be weeded out, replaced by the genes for blind courage. Our ARNOLD should not be concerned with personal survival – just winning.’

Drum nodded. ‘Like Dan, ARNOLD’s genes are in the hands of another. No Natural Selection.’ He pointed to the printout. ‘These adrenergics are way off the safety zone. If he were an ordinary Citizen, Security or Psych would be after him.’

‘ARNOLD’s loyalty will never be in question. He can’t live without his Hive fifteen-amino-acid bread.’

Drum left Chapel wondering how long the warrior could live without the bread: exactly how much ‘freedom’ could he buy at the cost of his life?

Opal changed Clam’s bandage. The teeth marks in his forearm had become purulent. Cloudy fluids oozed, odours foul, fevers hot and cold. The arm was swollen to twice its size. Fingers could not move.

Sister White Belly stared into Clam’s glazed eyes. ‘He doesn’t know me!’ she wailed. ‘We must go up to the beach and build a fire. He needs hot broth. We must boil the dressings more thoroughly. This dome’s hot spot just can’t produce enough heat.’

Opal shook her head. ‘The Hive has too many ships Outside. We couldn’t hide a fire from them.’

‘But Clam is dying. He smells bad.’

‘We’ll have to amputate; remove the dead tissue. Go for the Listener. He has had experience in these matters.’

Young White Belly brooded as she swam to Halfway. Listener nodded as she described Clam’s injury – livid, purple skin, dusky grey punctures, orange serous drainage.

‘Clostridia!’

They swam quickly to the dome where Big Har and Opal had spread out the cutting tools. Clam’s toxic condition kept his mind wandering through old memories – battles and love affairs. He was unaware of Listener’s hands on his swollen arm.

‘There may still be time,’ said the shaggy old Benthic. ‘Notice how the finger pulps blanch on pressure. Then they pink up. The capillary beds haven’t clotted yet. If we can get him down four more levels the increased oxygen might kill off the organisms. Clostridia is an anaerobic bacillus. Oxygen kills it.’

‘Four levels? The squeeze?’ said Opal.

Listener nodded. ‘We’ll have to hurry. CLAM!’ He slapped his face ‘CLAM!! Can you hear me? We are going to move you. Hold your breath.’

They dragged the delirious male from bubble to bubble as they descended into the abyss.

‘Don’t come any farther,’ cautioned Listener. ‘We don’t want to risk the fits and giggles. I’ll take Clam down to that dome on the left. He’ll have plenty of air and fresh water. If he isn’t better in twelve hours there is nothing more we can do.’

White Belly and her parents watched from the level-eight umbrella while Clam was towed down another ten fathoms and into a pale glowing dome. A few minutes later a humanoid butterfly visited the deep dome. It had wide lacy wings – one of the Deep Cult that lived off the Benthics’ offerings. Opal tugged White Belly back to the upper level.

‘We must stay home for a day after visiting the squeeze or the pops will get us,’ said Opal. ‘Then you must do Clam’s chores. He was harvesting South Reef. But beware of Leviathan.’

White Belly pushed away a curious fifteen-pound fish – one of the basses with pale yellow and brown blotches on its back.

‘I’ll be careful. What was that big creature on the Leviathan that bit Clam – another Benthic?’

Opal shook her head. ‘No, child. It was not one of our people. Listener says it was an ARNOLD. The Hive can build people as easily as you or I can draw their pictures. Before you were born – the Hive designed a warrior to fight Clam. They grew the ARNOLD in a bottle. No mother. Just a bottle.’

White Belly sharpened her abalone iron.

Fingering his gold emblem, Drum questioned his view-screen: ‘I’ve lost my Leo. Who will continue my ARNOLD project?’

The CO simulated its father-figure face: greying temples, firm jaw, and sympathetic eyes. ‘We are moving you up to Committee Chairman. You will be companion to my terminals in this city, and you will chair the meetings. Give me your daily man-minute and I’ll see that all your needs are met.’

Drum dropped his emblem into the slot. A new gold bar was dispensed: A Ram – the Aries rank. He rubbed it on his sleeve.

‘And ARNOLD?’

‘As Chairman you may take as much interest as you wish. He sails this afternoon. Your presence is expected. Your new quarters will be behind the meeting room.’

Drum nodded. He’d be sleeping with terminals.

The Shipyard tower was crowded. Meditecks removed ARNOLD’s banjo splint and fitted him with a light brace to remind him not to do any heavy lifting for a while. He opened and closed his left fist slowly.

‘See, Drum. I’m fine.’ The giant grinned.

Drum handed him a cyberkit. Two Electrotecks stood by with heavy crates. ‘Here are the learning-tapes you’ll need to work on
Rorqual
’s lingual readouts. Get the ship to talk to you. Make friends with it so it will warn you when a Benthic approaches. It is a good Harvester. Take care of it and it will take care of you.’

ARNOLD handed the kit to a teck. Class-ten dollies rolled up and picked up the crates of bright new auditory and vocal attachments. Drum’s aging concerned the warrior. All of the old man’s hair was gone – scalp and eyebrows. His synthetic teeth were too white against senile skin with its pink vascular markings and crusts. The lens in his unoperated eye had now gone cloudy – grey-brown – a mature lenticular cataract. His synthetic hip worked well enough, but the knee had developed an internal loose body and a noisy, gritty knee cap.

‘You tire, old man. Have you requested a Clinic visit?’

‘Put in for it as soon as I got my Aries. All Chairmen get pretty well taken care of. Don’t worry about me.’ Drum smiled.

The giant patted the shrunken old Nebish on the shoulder and left. He saw Wandee with her team of Biotecks in the hall. She recognised the giant’s reluctance at leaving.

‘Drum will be well worked up,’ she assured him. ‘The CO has given us carte blanche. I’ll look over the Clinic’s printouts for signs of a failing neurohumoral axis. Maybe we can order a set of young endocrines from his clone lab.’

ARNOLD nodded. Wandee and Drum had become his parent-figures. Although he had been ‘jarred’, he had been given this pseudofamily support because of his primitive psyche. She walked him down to the docks and waved as he boarded
Rorqual
. The hump trees looked incongruous in the yards – living green against a gleaming cyberforest of crane and lathe robots. The Harvester’s visits were too brief to permit the mecks to work on her. She paused just long enough to unload and change crews. But on each docking an army of Class Sevens marched through her hull, taking readings that would help with the designs of new Harvesters. A score of new super-structures were taking shape in their ways. Lesser Arnolds laboured with the mecks – unconditioned, simple synthetic workers, thick of skin and dull of wit. Soporifics laced their porridge. They waved as
Rorqual
edged out into the sump.

Once on board, Arnold began installing the new vocal panels. He crawled between decks, moving around fluffy insulation to make room for the new units. Old units were left where they were, locked in place by thick roots and the red-green scales of oxides. The learning-tapes played. Tightening the last splice, he patted the wall.

‘There you are, old girl. A new set of vocal cords. What do you say?’

‘Hello, bare feet.’

He glanced down, smiling, flexing his toes. The rest of the crew wore boots.

‘Wonderful! You sound fine. Anything else?’

‘Clear my hump.’

‘Your hump?’

‘Yes,’ said
Rorqual
. ‘Clear the trees from my hump and close my damaged plates. The electrolyte spray burns.’

ARNOLD nodded. ‘The salty mist. Does it cause pain?’

‘Yes. It burns my nerves and ages me.’

ARNOLD glanced around with new insight. All of the exposed wiring was like his own nervous system – sensitive to pH and oxygen damage.

He took a team of Electrotecks through the quarter-mile-long backbone of the cyberwhale and tried to estimate the work necessary to protect her circuitry.

‘There must be an acre of big trees up there,’ said ARNOLD. ‘We’ll need months to dig out this mess of roots and rust.’

‘I am in pain,’ said the ship. ‘Please waterproof my circuitry immediately. I’ll prepare vats of polymer for spray application. It will be transparent and can be cut easily for making repairs. But it’ll keep gas and water out. I will be comfortable.’

ARNOLD nodded. ‘Right away, old girl.’ He issued the orders. Tecks began spraying the syrupy coating. A blanket of the material was wrapped around the fore and hind brains and sealed. When the work was completed they hosed down the areas with seawater. No pain. ARNOLD smiled. ‘Now you should be comfortable even if we sink.’ He laughed.

He strolled through the hump vegetation, fingering the leaves and vines. The island Agromeck had planted and tended them. There were no flowers or spore cases but years remained of their life spans. ‘Machine a double-bladed axe for me,’ said the giant.

Although
Rorqual
was far out to sea, the axe looked like a weapon to Hive Security. The Committee was called into session. They opened the channels to the CO and the ship.

‘Why wasn’t the Sharps Committee consulted prior to the blade’s manufacture?’ asked Security.

‘It is a tool,’ explained
Rorqual
.

‘Does the ARNOLD consent to placing it in the weapons locker immediately?’

The ship switched channels and focused with a deck optic. A short storm had blown up. Dark, heavy rain splattered into hump vegetation. ARNOLD sang as he chopped; soft rainwater mixed with his sweat. Wood chips were flying. Security repeated the question, but the words were carried away by the wind.

‘What?’ asked ARNOLD, noticing the glowing optic.

‘Do you consent—’ began Security. His words were choked off by his view of another figure moving behind ARNOLD – a wet, naked, female Benthic.

Whooop! Whooop!

ARNOLD turned, axe in hand, to meet the lunge of White Belly – breasts, hips, and a voluminous mane. Axe and abalone iron clicked and clacked. Her iron cut across his chest, slicing fabric and chipping studs. Her left hand gripped the axe handle above his.

She stabbed and sliced with the iron, opening his coveralls. He caught her mane in his left hand. They rolled on the wet deck, wood chips and leaves clinging to her warm, moist body, giving it a speckled appearance. Lightning flashed.

The screen before the Committee focused on the struggling pair.
Rorqual
dutifully recorded. A variety of sensors documented the female’s characteristics – bone and soft tissue configurations, reflex time, theromogram, and gas analysis.

‘She is much smaller than ARNOLD,’ said Drum, hopefully. ‘He shouldn’t have any trouble with her.’

Her iron sank into his side, releasing a well of thick dark blood.

‘He’s wounded,’ gasped Drum; his lifetime project hung in the balance.

‘Only a knife in the
latissimus dorsi
,’ reassured the CO. ‘He’s fine. Give him some encouraging words. Tell him to chop off her head.’

The deck scene was obscured by the misty rain, but ARNOLD seemed vigorous enough. (Something went ‘cluck, cluck’ in the giant’s brain.)

‘But he’s not killing her,’ objected the CO. ‘I can’t get involved, being a meck – but you understand our mission here. Tell him to fight.’