Medusa: A Tiger by the Tail (21 page)

“I don’t know why we need anybody,” Ching protested. “We were doing pretty good, I think, and we were
happy.”

“Vettas are happy until they’re caught and killed,” I retorted. “We’re more than animals, Ching. We’re human beings—and human beings have to grow and learn. That’s why we need them.”

We
were
offered some of the kill, after the rest had taken their pick of the best cuts, and I complimented them on their great skill as hunters—which also seemed to please them. I think they knew that my three city-dwelling companions were upset by the hunt and kill, and were vastly amused by their reactions as they tried to bite into the chunks of meat. Angi, whose motto seemed to be “I’ll try anything once” was the most successful; Bura ate as little as she thought she could get away with and looked extremely uncomfortable; Ching finally forced a mouthful down, but she just couldn’t conceal her disgust and refused to eat any more. I didn’t press her; I thought throwing up would be in the worst of taste.

I was relieved to see that our tribal hosts were taking things so well, and I began to suspect that some of them, at least, were neither as naive nor as ignorant as they pretended to be.

They had a ceremony at the end of the meal that seemed to have solemn religious overtones. Dead vetta would not keep; only the skin was savable, and you had to strip off the meat and bone from it completely and “cure” the skin in the thermal pool. When the host died, the Wardens began to die as well, and decomposition was swift. I had found this the case with fruit and berries, although not with cut wood and leaves. It was almost as if the Wardens were determined to keep a very clean, almost antiseptic, wilderness, yet knew enough to leave behind those that were useful to man.

The ceremony itself was interesting and, as usual with such rites, incomprehensible to me. It involved praying, chanting over the remains, with the leader eventually casting what couldn’t be saved into the thermal pool manner of an offering, or sacrifice. I wanted very much to know more about such ceremonies and beliefs, if c keep from stepping on toes, but didn’t dare ask right now. There was time enough, for that later.

Two more days of travel to the northwest, which included some more hunting, lay the camp. On the w approached and actually crossed the tracks of our old train; it brought a twinge of nostalgia to Bura, at least, certainly to Ching.

The camp was far more than that Nestled up the mountains, invisible from anywhere on the beyond, it was in every sense a small city. A large of stones, some placed by humans, some natural, with an area more than a kilometer in diameter inside the “walls” guarded the camp from the ground and from wind, although the roofless area inside was open to the elements. A small stone amphitheater was carved out rock floor in the center of the interior—with what training told me might be an altar at the bottom. A fire pit dominated the place, but there were many small dwellings made of skin and supported by but temporary wooden beams all over. The bulk population was not below in the common yard, but actually within the sheer rock wall behind, in what appeared to be dozens of caves. They were all over the high and low, and there were no ladders—only well-worn hand- and footholds carved into the side of the wall. Tribal members, however, scurried up and that wall and in and out of the caves as if they were used to it.

At the base of the cliff, at ground level was a cave, a bit larger than the others. Through obviously made channels, streams from the snow melt above down in small matched waterfalls to holding pools on the sides of the camp. From there the water was for use within the compound or allowed to overflow and run off through outlets in the protective wall.

Angi, in particular, was impressed. ‘This is one hell of a job of civil engineering, mostly done by hand.”

“Remember, we’re not dealing with a long time period here,” I reminded her and the others as well. “The two Medusas were only really completely closed off to each other forty or fifty years ago. It’s entirely possible that some of the original pioneers are still alive here.

It was, in fact, this dichotomy between the inevitable pioneer resourcefulness and the primitive, religion-based lifestyle of these people that bothered me the most.

We were told to wait near the amphitheater, and we could only stand there and look around.

“How many people would you say live here?” I asked our engineer.

She thought for a moment. “Hard to say. Depends on how deep those caves are and what kind of chambers are inside, although I doubt if they’re too big. This is metamorphic rock, not sedimentary.” 

“Make a guess.”

“A hundred. Maybe a hundred and fifty.” I nodded. ‘That’s about my guess at the top end.” 

“It’s so
small
for a town,” Ching put in. 

“Uh uh,” I responded. “It’s too
large.
How do you feed a hundred and fifty people when you can’t store food? If those tents there were out on the plain, near the vettas, or in the forest, maybe I could see it. A population this small might be supported there. But we’re half a day from any grazing or edible forest land. There’s something pretty fishy going on here.”

Various people, almost all women and all with those tribal skirts, went here and there and up and down, always giving us curious looks, but we were left pretty much alone for quite a while. Finally somebody seemed to remember us, and a pregnant woman—not the one with the hunting party—emerged from one of the skin tents, and walked over to us. “Come with me,” she said. “The Elders will see you now.”

I gave a let-me-do-the-talking glance at the other three, hoping that was a good idea, and, not surprisingly, the woman led us over to the ground-level cave.

The first surprise were the torches, nicely aligned and lit along the walls of the cave. This was the first exposed fire we’d seen the Wild Ones use, and really the first real flame we’d seen in a long time.

The cave went back pretty far in the cliff, causing some mental revision of how extensive the interiors could be. More interesting, perhaps ten meters in there appeared an abrupt boundary in the cave wall. The first part of the cave was natural, but the rest of it beyond the boundary had been carved with modern tools, probably a laser cannon.

About a hundred and twenty meters in, the cave opened into a large rectangular chamber, perhaps fifteen by ten and with a five-meter ceiling. Only half of the room, however, was usable; about five meters into the room the floor suddenly stopped and we were looking at a fast-flowing river. Beyond the river, again another five meters, was a recess in the rock, carved by laser—you could tell by the neat squared-off corners. Inside the recess stood three large wooden chairs, with no sign of how anyone would get into or out of that recess. But get in they did—two very old women and an equally aged man sat there, looking at us. I think they were the oldest people I’d ever seen, but they were very much alert and looking at us.

So Elders was not a title of respect but a literal one.

All three were as hairless as everybody else, but their skin was a stretched and wrinkled light gray, like the surrounding rock. In the torchlight they looked eerily impressive.

I glanced around, but could see no sign of our guide—or anybody else. We were alone with the wizened Elders of the People of the Rock.

“What is your name, boy?” one of the women asked in a cracked, high-pitched voice.

“I am called Tari, and also Tarin Bul,” I responded.

“But those are not your true names.”

I was a little surprised, particularly since this was not a question but a statement of fact. “It is not,” I admitted. “However, it is my name now and the only one by which I go.”

“You are not a native.” The words, again fact and not question, were uttered by the man, whose voice was scarcely different from the old woman’s.

“No. I was sent here from the Confederacy.”

“As a convict?”

At last! A real question! I had begun to worry. “Against my will, yes.” That was true enough. No use telling them any more than I had to for now.

“These women are your family?” That was the third one. “They are.”

There was a pause, then the man said, “You told the pilgrims you fled Rochande. Why?”

As concisely as I could, I told them about the Opposition, its betrayal, and our narrow escape. I went into no detail as to motives, just presented the bare facts, concluding with our long search in the wild for others. They sat impassively, but I could tell that their eyes were bright and alive with both intelligence and interest. When I finished I expected more questions on our lives, but that was apparently not of further interest.

“What did the pilgrims tell you this place was?” the first woman asked.

“They just said they were taking us to their tribal camp.” That response brought a chuckle from all three. “Camp. Very good,” the second woman commented. “Well—what do you think of this camp?”

“I think it is not a camp or a tribal village,” I answered. “Indeed? Why not?”

“You can’t possibly feed all who are here. And you called the hunting party pilgrims.”

“Very good, very good,” the old man approved. “You are correct. This is not a camp. It is more in the nature of a religious retreat. Does that disturb you?” 

“No. As long as we’re not to be sacrifices.” 

They seemed to like that reply; it started them chuckling again. Finally the first woman asked, “What do you expect of your life here in the wild? Why did you seek out those whom the city dwellers call Wild Ones?”

Well, they sure didn’t try to pretend they were ignorant or naive. “Knowledge,” I told them. “Much of this world is in bondage, and the people don’t even all realize it. The city dwellers are becoming about as human as vettas, and not nearly as free. Or, like the tubros, they cling to their safe, secure havens where they don’t have to think and only have to do what they are told to be provided with their basic, needs.”

“And this is wrong?”

“We
think it is. This Lord of Medusa is evil. He has killed the spirit inside people that makes them human—and he enjoys it. Worse, he has gotten Medusa involved in a clandestine war against the Confederacy itself that might possibly destroy the entire planet.”

“And you think you four can stop him?”

“I think we can try,” I told them honestly. “I think I would rather try than do nothing.”

They thought that one over. Finally the second woman asked me, “In this world picture of human, vettas, and tubros you paint—how do you paint yourselves?”

I smiled. “We escaped. Fifty-five went meekly to their mind-deaths. We are harrars, of course.”

They all nodded and did not return the smile. The man said, “In our past we, too, dreamed of destroying that evil system and freeing Medusa for the people. We three were adults fifty-one years ago when the cities were enclosed and the early monitor systems installed. Only one of us—myself—was born here, and I was born before this place became a prison and a madhouse. Less than a thousand, including us, escaped planetwide in the pogrom that resulted in what you have today. But we were clever. Like you, we escaped with nothing at all.”

I nodded, having figured as much. “But this place—it was built before the crackdown?”

“It was. Not all of it, of course—just this cave and the network in back of it. Call it an escape place, if you like. Records of its very existence were expunged from Medusa’s files after the pogrom was inevitable but before it took place. From here, with our hands and those of others, we carved the rest.”

“It’s very impressive,” I told them, and meant it. “Running water, something of a sewage system, shelter—very impressive. But badly located to support any size population.”

“Oh, we don’t wish a large population,” the first woman told us. “That would attract attention. It is neither our purpose nor intent to support anything more here than you see, particularly now. You see, at one time we had such dreams as you have. But did you think that Talant Ypsir created the system and initiated the pogrom? He did not. He was still high and mighty back in the Outside at the time it was initiated. He only refined it, made it even more complete. He is the third Lord since it began and each one has been worse than the one who came before. The first two died by assassination—and the second one was a true reformer who intended to reverse the changes and reconcile Medusans with their land. He was, instead, seduced by the same handy drug as his predecessor and successor—absolute power. It is not enough to kill the Lord. It is not enough to kill the Lord’s Council. To accomplish what you wish would require the failure of all technological support of the cities, transport, and space. The population would have to be forced
en masse
into the wild, whether they wanted to go or not. And that is something that cannot be.
They
have the arms and the means to see that it does not.”

“And so, with this realization,” the man picked up, “we decided that we could only ignore them as they now ignore us. Build a new and different culture suited to the land outside their system.”

“But their system will come for you one day,” I pointed out. “In the end, it will engulf you because it must.”

“Perhaps. We think not. We hope not. But our way is the only possible way.”

“But it isn’t!” I protested. “Your goal
can
be achieved. The potential is here. How many—ah, Wild Ones are there now?”

“We prefer Free Tribes,” the first woman told me. “There are between thirty and forty thousand worldwide. That is an estimate, of course—our communication lines are primitive.”

Thirty to forty thousand! What an army that would make! If only … “Such a force could infiltrate and take the major cities, cripple the industry and transportation network, and destroy the balance of Medusan control.”

“How? Ten thousand near-naked savages, most of whom think even a flashlight is magic and who have never seen a light switch or things made of steel and plastic?”

“I believe it can be done, with training. I believe it can be done because I believe in the possibility of self-controlled body malleability. That is what I am looking for here.”