“A really Big Hunt.”
Walter darkened. “But those are Followers of Olga. The beads. The conjunction.”
Val frowned. “The planets do not fit the beads. The buckeye shamen were misreading space junk. There’s no spiritual insight there—just superstitious human error. In order to fit the beads I’d have to find at least three other planets moving into the same sign with Jupiter. Jupiter is alone in Sagittarius.”
7
Big Hunt at 50:00
Tiller lumbered along, turning the soil. Its ten-ton chassis traveled lightly on wide, soft wheels and powerful motor units. As its appendages dug into the wetter bottom lands it slowed. Hugh approached from behind. A rear optic picked him out. Tiller stopped.
“Good morning, human.”
“Hi!” said Hugh. “Can you give me a ride back to my people in yonder valley?”
The big meck politely turned toward the valley, estimating the distance at two miles—and turned him down.
“I am very sorry, human. But I have my chores.”
“Mind if I ride along?”
“Enjoy your company.”
Hugh climbed up on the neck behind the anterior bulge of neurocircuitry. “Play me a tune,” he asked. The Agromeck tuned in on some entertainment channel for music-of-the-day. Hugh waited, watching the sky. Even during the day there were visible aurora when the EM disturbance was greatest. About an hour later the light blue flares crawled across the northern sky. The music fizzed and blanked out. Moving quickly, Hugh reached up and plucked out the antenna. Tiller stopped.
“Why did you do that?”
“I would like a taxi ride into the valley.”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”
“And keep your appendages up while we travel.”
The acromegalic raised a heavy stone and pounded the shaft door—denting and chipping.
“Entrance unauthorized—” moaned Door.
Slowly the metalloid paneling warped under the blows. Door’s microcircuits cracked and bent as the mechanical stresses vibrated through the paper-thin brain. Fatigued, the acromegalic set down his stone and peered curiously through the elliptical-shaped crevice. It was his first look into the dreaded hive.
“It’s dark in there—smells kind of rotten,” he related to the crowd behind him. “There are humans in there—little fat guys. They seem to be armed and waiting. Better call some of the stronger, young men before I go any further on this door.”
Tiller rolled up to the door carrying about twenty light-hearted fugitives. They were laughing and joking until they saw the door.
“You want to go inside?” asked one incredulously.
“Tiller, here, can crush open that door—can’t you, Tiller?”
The big Agromeck balked. “I cannot damage—especially another cyber that is just doing its duty.”
“Door is a cyber?”
“Here, give me that stone. I’ll show you how it is done,” said a burly fellow. He took up the stone and bounced it hard off the door. Little circuits broke. Door sagged, mindless.
Garage was empty except for mecks. The floor by Door was littered with throwing nets and quarterstaffs, but Security had fled. Groping in the semi-darkness, the ragged fugitives filed inside cautiously—fingering heaps of rubbish and small discarded parts. Garage retracted its small Servomecks. Larger Agromecks rested in their bays—eyeing the new arrivals with only mild interest.
Moses and Hugh noticed the gaping door and entered.
“Here’s a dispenser. Toothpick, see how much food it will deliver,” said Moses. He set the cyberspear up against the garage dispenser while he explored the bays. Little food items began to fall into the chute, sluggish at first—but when Toothpick figured out the ordering sequence there was a steady shower of protein bars. Hugh snapped antennae from the Agromecks he found and ordered them Outside.
“Lots of power sockets here. We should be able to recharge the mecks, load up on food bars and move on in pretty good shape,” said Hugh.
Moses smiled. “Take a load of men to that other shaft cap. These garages are pretty standard. Should find the same things there.”
Squads of fugitives assaulted twenty shaft caps that day. The five-toed glacier became an army—the first Earth had seen for over a thousand years. Agromecks became armored personnel carriers; food bars, rations; garage scrap, weapons.
Greyhound II hovered. The bug-eyed hunter swung down-harness and stood on a rise of ground overlooking the mass of fugitives. Too far for bowshot. The craft lifted off to put another hunter on the far side.
“There’s one!” shouted Hugh. He was standing on Tiller’s back directing the big meck on perimeter patrol. The twenty club-swinging fugitives leaped from their taxi-meck and rushed the startled hunter.
“Let me at him.”
“This one is mine.”
An awkward arrow wobbled into the flesh of the first hunter—causing only a three-inch slash across the ribs. The cutting and hacking that followed reminded Hugh of some sort of ceremony, rather than a battle. Whatever evil spirits might have inhabited that soft, little body—they were certainly driven out. When they moved on, Hugh had another bow.
That night Tiller deposited a squad of tired bowmen at Moses’ campfire.
“So the outriders are back. Have a good patrol?”
“Caught seven hunters before they could kill. Two got through—lost eight of our people from the right wing.”
Moses ladled soup from a kettle—upside-down fender propped on stones and hot coals. Food bars boiled with vegetable scraps. The weary patrol ate eagerly.
The next day was much better. The army flowed south another twenty miles—cracking into a dozen shaft caps. The kidnapped Agromecks served well—as long as they weren’t asked to take an active part in the killing. They dogged the Huntercraft and tracked the hunters. More of Moses’ people had hand weapons now. The perimeter was very secure. Food bars stolen from the hive proved almost adequate to quiet the hunger pangs by nightfall.
Hugh was almost smug as he sat around the campfire. His heavy axle-bludgeon was cradled on his knees.
“If things continue as well as they are—we’ll have no trouble reaching the border.”
Moses paced around the little group nervously. The massive army had cohesion—purpose. He felt the power that a leader must feel. He was Earth’s first general in a millennium. He could lead his people anywhere tonite, and they’d follow. Odd, but he felt he would be successful—with Toothpick’s help. He wondered if all generals felt such optimism.
The next morning he studied the horizon apprehensively.
“Aren’t those Harvesters?”
Hugh followed Moses’ index finger to a distant army of busy machines—dust and fodder flew.
“So?” said Hugh. “They’re harvesting. As long as they stay over there and do their job—”
Moses’ sharp eyes and years of living in the gardens told him something was wrong. He ran over to Tiller.
“Old meck, tell me—what are those Harvesters doing?”
Tiller flexed his optics. Three miles was a long view for him, but the spectroscopic analysis was all he needed.
“They harvest triple-crop—but it is not ripe.”
Moses’ suspicions were confirmed. A three-mile zone was being harvested—all around the army. Soon foam filled the zone to a depth of seven feet. The sun fried the foam nutrients into a pasty crust on top. Auxins and insect hormones were probably present in almost toxic levels.
“Crack the shaft caps!” shouted Moses. The army still covered an area three miles in diameter. Foam jets were bent and blocked as they started to ooze. The ten shaft caps in their camp were smashed into—they were devoid of supplies—dispensers were empty. Frightened citizens cowered in their cubicles—starving.