Koban Universe 1 (12 page)

Kam’s
desires melded exactly with Ryan’s own, to get out of the backyard and explore, to hunt dangerous large prey animals. Together, they would figure out how to make that happen.

Over the next week,
after his dad departed, Ryan “acquired” some material things they would need. He had no trouble getting onto the garage and onto a tool table. No need to climb. It was an easy four-foot leap for a three and a half year old Kobani child. One day, while his mom was in the feedlot giving grain to yearling half-wild gazelles, to fatten them up for sale to the slaughterhouse, he used a ladder in the garage to reach some things on shelves and high hooks. Kam stood watch at the rear glass doors, to see if their mom headed back to the house sooner than expected.

He took
possession of a seldom used long hunting knife, which was out of place in the back of a tool drawer and wouldn’t be missed right away, if at all. From hooks on the garage wall he took one of four sections of coiled ropes, found a small foldable shovel, and he used an old school backpack to hold his ill-gotten goodies. He claimed some old pliers, a spare screwdriver, and a wire cutter with a nicked cutting edge and damaged handle. The wire cutter wouldn’t be missed, at least until his dad came home. He’d said within Ryan’s hearing that he’d fix it later. Mom said that to dad, “later” meant never. It was odd that his dad confused the two words.

There were
multiple firearms in the house, from pistols to heavy rifles, but even if he managed to find a way to get hold of one, the chances of their not being missed were zero. The house AI, Sam, monitored the locked gun case for one thing. His mother had the same nearly perfect memory as did he, and she checked the secured glass faced case several times daily, when she passed through the main family room. He watched her eyes to be certain she did that. At least he had his personal jazzer, a non-lethal nerve jangler with a short range.

Before the advent of the most recent
gene mods, and availability of Mind Tap training, a child didn’t acquire their own jazzer until at least the age of five or six. Ryan had known how to use his small rechargeable gun for almost a year. He’d been permitted to use it to drop a gazelle into numbed unconsciousness on two occasions, when male bucks with horn gore wounds required medical treatment. The males fought over “friendships” with the females his mom said. Ryan couldn’t imagine why they’d even care. He’d never fight over any girl in his class.

A jazzer
only had about a twenty-five foot range, but one could stop even a sizable animal from approaching too close if it wasn’t coming at a dead run. The nerve disrupter didn’t actually hurt them, but the numbness left them partly paralyzed and vulnerable. The gradual recovery, over a half an hour or less, depending on the animal’s mass, felt like thousands of little pins prickling the nerve endings as feelings returned.

Ryan knew this, because he wasn’
t allowed to have the eagerly anticipated weapon until he underwent a “zap.” As the kids called being jazzed. There was no pain when the cone of nerve deadening radiation touched him (his dad made him sit on the couch). However, his legs, which his father had numbed, soon felt like hundreds of kants with painfully sharp feet were walking on him as sensation returned. A kant was a small social colony insect on Koban, which had a dangerous sting and pinchers that hurt. He zapped them anytime he found them in the back yard. Those and other “mean” biting or stinging insects had been his only prey to hunt thus far. His mom became distressed if he zapped a bird or the harmless small animals that got into the back yard. Even the pretty colored flying insects she attracted with sugar water feeders.

The discomfort
he was made to experience from the jazzer was to make certain he knew the consequences of being careless with his personal protection. Koban was too dangerous to depend on so weak a defense, but one couldn’t give small children lethal weapons. He wanted the knife for its obvious defensive utility, but used as a tool, he’d fashion spears from the aptly named spear grass.

The
grey bamboo-like stalks grew to nearly ten feet in length, and were over an inch thick at their base. They became slender hollow segments half way to the top, and the solid base could be shaved down to form a sharp point. When treated with fire, the tips hardened, and were perfect for throwing or stabbing. He had paid for that knowledge from Sanjay with a visual image he’d collected of a Krall. They all had been shown what the Krall looked like, of course, but this image was of a dead one. A very messy image of one.

He’d gotten
the image from a visitor to his school, a soldier like his dad, who came to speak with his teacher. It was obvious from the kiss that Ms. Walters appeared to like Mr. Rayburn a great deal, and as she excused herself to bring him a cold drink, he was left alone with her class of nine children, which was at recess in their exercise room.

Poor man. He never expected to be suckered by a three year old. Ryan asked
quietly if he could ride on his shoulders. As he was lifted, he casually asked by Mind Tap, “
Is it true a Krall can heal from any wound?
” Mr. Rayburn, completely unguarded around his girlfriend’s small wards, had a flash image of a Krall he’d made
certain
wouldn’t recover.

That image bought the spear-making lesson from Sanjay, who had seen his father make some
of them for his older brother. Wait until he showed Sanjay what he did with spears he made for himself, and went hunting with Kam.

His chance came, as he’d planned, when his mother and Gretchen needed to
drive two trucks loaded with nearly grown gazelles to sell at market. They herded the animals onto a raised railed platform, and used long shock rods to get them to move into the two big boxy trucks. They always did this early on a Saturday morning, when taking kids to school and picking them up wasn’t required for two days, leaving them the entire weekend for the journey over rough roads. Not that they would take the out of school kids with them to the slaughterhouse.

“
They think we’ll see or learn something that will warp our minds,
” Ryan sent to Kam scornfully
.
“
Boy, if they could see that image I got of a gutted and decapitated Krall.
”

For babysitting,
his parents always called on retired old Doc Trent, to watch and feed him and Aunt Gretchen’s little girl for the overnight trip. He was partly crippled and only had clone mods, which made him able to endure Koban’s gravity but he was no match for Koban animal speed and strength, so he generally kept to the indoors. That meant he didn’t mind staying inside with Ryan and Ingrid.

Another reason for his being hired for this periodic task
by settlers with full Kobani children, besides his need to earn some income and free meat, was his disability. He’d suffered a brain injury on a rhinolo hunt years ago, when the side of his skull was pierced by a rhinolo cow’s horn tip, entering on the left side of his head.

Somehow, he’d been thrown free and rescued from certain death
by others on the hunt with him. However, without the modern med labs and nanites they had today, he’d barely been kept alive. He’d suffered irreversible brain damage. He could function and do many normal things, but he walked with a slight right side limp and his right arm was mildly affected. He’d completely lost the ability to speak, due to injury to the Broca’s area of his brain. He understood what was spoken to him or sent via a Mind Tap, and he’d demonstrated on multiple occasions that he retained his former medical knowledge, when he treated the less serious injuries of the settlers on the nearby ranches and farms. He simply couldn’t talk to anyone about what he knew.

The key to his demand
out here in the new settlement, as a babysitter of Kobani children, was that he could not be Mind Tapped by them. Or rather, a full Kobani could not
read
his thoughts. He could receive and process images, words, and emotions sent to him, but the brain circuits for sending thoughts back, for speaking words were ruined.

Ryan thought
a person like Doc, that couldn’t Mind Tap, was weird and far more crippled than his body made him. He felt sorry for the nice old man, but he would nevertheless take advantage of Doc’s inability to communicate verbally or mentally with his parents if he caught on to what the two daredevils did this weekend.

Ryan and Kam went upstairs to “play,” leaving Doc Trent
to watch Ingrid in her large playpen in the living room, with his recorded shows playing on the Tri-Vid set. Based on previous experience, Ryan knew they would have many hours of free time. Previously, Doc had left him completely alone all day on Saturday, after the two moms drove off in the trucks. Whom could Doc tell if he thought they were ignoring him and didn’t come down all day? The stairs were steep, and the old man hadn’t risked climbing them in the past.

He and Kam would have time to explore and hunt, if they could get out of the house undetected. He had a perfect plan
to get out, and back inside, without Doc knowing, nor Sam’s cameras seeing them. What could possibly go wrong?

After the two women
left, Doc appeared slightly nervous about Kam, and didn’t offer to scratch his ears or touch the neck frill. Talking overly slow and too loud, as if Doc were deaf, Ryan said, “Kam and I are going up to my playroom. I’ll take some snacks with us so you won’t have to make us lunch. I think Kam makes you nervous. See you later.”

Doc nodded, and waved his
good left hand as if to shoo them off. He rolled his eyes at the youngster making the common kid’s mistake of thinking the old man couldn’t hear, and was dim witted as well.

Gathering up the assorted food
and water bottles he’d prepared and concealed while his mom and Gretchen were loading the trucks, Ryan and Kam raced up the steps. Once in Ryan’s playroom, Kam fetched the stashed rope, as the boy shoved the sealed snacks into his backpack, which held the knife and other items, with the short folded shovel tied on the side.

The two of them shoved
, pushed and pulled a couple of three foot cubed hollow plastic play fort segments from the playroom, and stacked them in the hall. The boy wasn’t restructuring or relocating his pretend fort today. He was building an escape tower. Located directly under the cover of the opening into the attic, where winter gear was presently stored. He didn’t think he’d need any of that stuff, and all he and Kam required was access.

The
folding ladder he’d used in the garage was the one his parents used to get up into the attic, but bringing it inside could have drawn Doc’s notice. Wearing his backpack, he and Kam climbed easily to the top of the improvised tower. Standing on the flat surface, Ryan pushed up the rectangle of wood that covered the opening and slid it out of the way.

He took the coiled loops of rope from Kam
’s jaws, draped them over his head and on his left shoulder, and then jumped up to grasp the sides of the opening. He easily pulled himself through and into the familiar darkened attic. His night vision adapted almost instantly and he could see clearly by the dim light entering from the hole at his feet, and from two air vents at opposite ends of the gabled roof that ran the width of the house. The entire attic area was floored, for holding the parkas, snowshoes, and other stored winter goods, but there was a center aisle for easy movement.

Ryan stood back to allow Kam to jump up, ready to assist if the cub had any problem. There was no need. Kam shot through the opening without touching the sides, and landed on padded feet. He’d been up here before
, when they discussed Ryan’s plan.

They walked the length of the attic to
one of the air vents of smart plastic, mounted two stories above the garage. Depending on current temperature, humidity, and breezes, the Smart Plastic vents would automatically open or close to help maintain a reasonable flow of cooling air in summer and close tight to hold in heat for the winter. Today, the task of keeping the attic cool would become easier. Ryan had a large screwdriver in his pack, to help him remove the vent cover from the rectangular opening.

Leaning
the lightweight vent frame against the wall when it was free, he and Kam stuck their heads out of the opening. There it was, in plain sight. Freedom!

The teal colored grass, cropped short by the gazelles
that had been held in the half kilometer per side square feeder lot around the house, was only the first step to the real freedom they craved. They wanted to reach the larger electrified outer compound’s fence, where the main herd grazed in safety until the yearlings were separated and brought into the feeder lot.