“They carry weapons in the hive,” said the Nebish.
“They go up to fight buckeyes in the gardens,” explained the guard.
“But weapons—sharp weapons—are not allowed in the hive.”
“The Sharps Committee has been consulted. Crawl back into your cubicle. We can’t have you blocking the spiral.”
Later, after the troops had passed, the Nebish came out onto the spiral with his complacent neighbors—mildly curious about the battle. Two turns up, on the spiral across the shaft, they could see a conflict. It was a little over a hundred yards away, but they could make out an arrow’s flight and slashing short swords. A buckeye, shaggy and mauve in the dim light, ran downspiral. He thrust his sword into the white belly of a round hunter and moved on in a crouch. The spiral was crowed with dull-witted citizens who paid little attention to the bloodletting. They had seen Security drag off more than one kicking and screaming infant to the chute. The sight of a hunter struggling with a buckeye was mildly interesting, but they soon grew bored with the conflict and wandered on about their little activities—dispenser-shopping, meld-coming, refresher-going.
Of the six blademen that started out, only three made it to shaft base. The hundred hunters all lay dead. Three wounded blademen returned to the cap to have their wounds attended. Spearchucker reinforcements jogged downspiral to support the blademen.
“This city is secured,” said the proud blademan as Tinker trimmed back a badly mangled ear. A broken ulna had to be splinted. It was only the left arm. With a heavy bandage he’d be back fighting the next day—using the bulky bandage as a shield.
“Good work,” said Tinker. “At least we have one shaft cap. We can sleep well tonite.”
“Call out your men,” said Hip.
“What?” exclaimed Tinker. “We’ve just cleaned out this nest of rats, and you want to give it back?”
“All Followers of Olga must be at The River tonite. The signs are right.”
Tinker raised his finger and opened his mouth to argue, but he saw the reverence and instant obedience of the buckeyes around him. He held his tongue. The blademen withdrew from shaft base.
“Giving the city back…” mumbled Tinker. He returned to the forges. Coweyes had sewn more bellows and gathered wood from the orchards. Tinker instructed. They built ten more. Burly buckeyes swung stone hammers and quenched. Blademen increased.
Tinker squinted into the orange coals at the yellow glowing blade.
“Making teeth again?” asked a familiar voice.
Tinker turned and saw a sinewy old man with a wry smile—old man Moon. Beside him was a three-legged dog—Dan-with-the-golden-teeth. New scars had been added to their bodies, but they appeared otherwise little changed from the days on Mount Tabulum.
“Moon— Dan—” said Tinker, waving the glowing blade. He quenched it in a pot of water. Steam jumped. He walked over to his old friends.
“Making teeth again?” repeated Moon.
Tinker nodded. “Teeth for an army, this time.”
Old Moon glanced around, rubbing his hands together eagerly.
“So you finally decided to strike back at the Big ES? Looks like you have a good start,” said Moon, glancing at the shaft cap with disabled doors. “Need a couple of good men?”
Dan detected the fighting blood rising in his master’s voice. The beast squinted about, ears down—but saw no danger.
What Tinker saw was not a soldier—just an old man—a very old man—and his dog.
“Sure, Moon,” he said smiling. “We can use you. Come, meet Mu Ren. We can talk while we eat.” He didn’t say—“and rest.” It would have offended Moon; just because he had walked 2,000 miles…
The broth was thin. The baby was hungry. Moon noticed.
“Here, add these to the soup. Some little nibblers I carry when I travel. Cut them off a hunter who mistook me for an easy trophy.”
He dropped some stringy brown fragments into the soup. It immediately darkened and tasted like food. Tinker Junior stopped fretting after two bowls.
After Tinker filled Moon in on their quasi-superstitious reasons for being there, Moon asked about Toothpick.
“Toothpick and Moses are commanding the forces to the north. They have about a hundred Agromecks—and seem to have the skills to repair them. I’ve never seen so many technical caste members before.”
Moon got to his feet, Dan perked up.
“You’re not staying the night?”
“No,” said Moon. “I’ve got Toothpick’s butt in my pocket. I’ve got to return it to him. He might be needing it.”
He pulled out a short cylinder. It had an optic and several color indicators.
Tinker escorted Moon and Dan to the edge of their camp.
“Where did Dan get that star on his chest?”
“An arrow. Went clean through the posterior mediastinum and stuck into the third lumbar vertibra. Got the anterior spinal artery. Motor out to tail and left leg. Autonomies and sensory OK. The toes on his left foot finally fell off, but he gets along fine. I was really worried about his bladder and bowel for a long time. But they came back. The supply area for the anterior spinal artery doesn’t supply the sacral autonomies, you know.”
Tinker nodded. As they talked he absently drew a cross section of the spinal cord showing the three horns of gray matter: posterior, sensory; lateral, autonomic; and anterior, motor. Only Dan’s anterior horns were gone below the third lumbar, and even that wasn’t complete, for his right leg worked pretty good.
“Shaft came out easily in about three weeks,” said old man Moon. “Arrow head is still in there. Tail hasn’t wagged since.” He took the twig Tinker was drawing with and sketched a double-bladed axe.
“If you’re going into those shaft cities again, you might try making a bipennis at the forge. About six or seven pounds of metal—whatever feels right when you swing it on a handle as long as your forearm. Those two-headed axes are handy if you have to cut through a lot of—things. Keep one blade keen for the fancy stuff, you know,” he laughed.
Moon was older than Tinker and had seen a lot. The battle that was shaping up seemed to be more than just a struggle for calories. Two hundred years of walking the Earth gave him perspective.
Josephson glanced up at the screen. His troops had retaken the shaft city without a fight. Buckeyes were barricaded in the garage behind heaps of junk. They had a supply of bows and arrows, but the little fifteen-pound bows snapped in the enthusiasm of battle. Frustrated buckeyes leaped the barricades and rushed down two turns of the spiral to drive back any curious Nebish troops. Hip had ordered them to stay on the surface, so their sorties were brief.
“Don’t bother to retake the garage,” Josephson ordered. “Lay down a tanglefoot web of netting, and hold your positions behind it. Try holding on the fourth turn of the spiral.”
The troop leader nodded. Netting was strung.
Josephson tuned in on Huntercraft from White Country. EM interference was heavy.
“We’re coming, Josephson. Six craft due in three days. Twelve more about a week later. Only lost two so far.”
“How’s the neurocircuitry handling the magnetic storms?”
“Fine. We’re on manual, of course. But during the lulls the mecks carry on a very lucid conversation.”
“Manual? Where did you get all the pilots?”
“We’re learning on the job— Oh-oh. Number three is in trouble again. I’d better change that prediction to five craft in three days—thirteen a week later. We’re trying.”
Josephson checked with other hunter teams. The story was the same—ETA about a week, give or take a couple of days. Craft limped, stopped over for repairs, balked at the EM headaches—and squinted through a variety of cataracts.