The Godwhale (S.F. Masterworks) (19 page)

‘I’d better eat a few,’ said Opal, reaching into her sack. She floated on her back, small breasts set wide and pointed. Placing a bivalve on the muscle bulge over her sternum she struck it as her cracking stone. Three stout blows – chipping and loud. Flavourful white meat oozed from the damaged shell. She pulled it out with her teeth, sharing with Har. White Belly tried to imitate her mother but only managed to bruise herself. Clam began cracking mussels and feeding his siblings.

They ate, harvested, and ate some more. Opal ate her fill and dozed on her back while the youngsters continued nibbling and exploring the bountiful reef. One by one they stopped diving and napped in the gentle waves. Big Har circled the group to herd them together, but that proved unnecessary. They instinctively stayed close, using slight hand movements, while they slept. At dusk they returned to their archipelago.

Young ARNOLD buckled on his harness while the workmen loaded his two-wheel cart. His supervisor handed him a thick crust of fifteen-amino-acid bread. He leaned into the straps. Wheels creaked. It was a two-hour run to the top of the Spiral.

Citizens were already lined up at the Dispenser when he arrived. The pressure had fallen again, and they would have to go down to shaft-base for their calorie-basic if it weren’t for ARNOLD’s training runs.

‘Good time, ARNOLD,’ said the workman who had ridden in the cart. He climbed down and handed ARNOLD a yellow-four sour to cut the thick mucus from his throat.

ARNOLD squatted in his harness, chewing his treat. He was only six years old, but was already the size of an average Citizen. His powerful calf muscles tingled after the workout. Soon he would be trained to work in the Shipyards, they told him. The work was important – clearing away debris. He was a very bright ARNOLD. He understood everything very fast. His mentors hardly ever had to use the whip – anymore.

That night he slept under his car at the loading docks. He had lots of room to stretch out. The workers on the shift made hardly any noise at all. His new chains were comfortable – long and light, a new alloy. Supervisors handed him his bread six times a day. His diet was generous. He grew fast.

Drum sat on the edge of the wagon and offered ARNOLD an orange-three sweet bar.

‘All of us are Reincarnationists. You know what that means, don’t you?’

ARNOLD grinned and recited: ‘We believe in the transmigration of the soul. Our souls lived in other bodies, even in non-human creatures, before inhabiting our present ones.’

‘That is correct,’ said Drum, speaking slowly. ‘We go to Chapel and try to feel some experience from a previous life. We try to understand ourselves better – to become better Citizens. Would you like to do that?’

ARNOLD nodded.

‘You may find that you weren’t always a draft animal,’ said Drum.

ARNOLD’s grin was a little vacant. He did not understand what Drum meant.

An appointment was made with Mullah.

ARNOLD appeared at Chapel with Drum at his elbow. He was almost two feet taller than the average Citizen. His chains went
ching, ching, ching
, as he walked down the aisle. The walls of the nave were decorated with the Darwinian Transmigration: protozoa, metazoa, lover invertebrates, higher animals and finally the ultimate Hive creatures – the four-toed Nebish. Drum studied several paintings and noticed an obvious lack of details. Phylum characteristics were largely ignored by the artist, who stressed eyes or eyespots primarily, as if the creature’s viewpoint were more important than its identity.

The robed Mullah directed ARNOLD to put down his chains and stretch out on the altar – a heavily telemetered couch. The links clattered noisily to the floor. Four Meditecks tubed and wired him to the sensory tape machine for a review of his phylogenetic tradition – his leptosoul.

‘First, we will try to establish a common sensory language between the tapes and ARNOLD’s subconscious,’ drugs and midbrain trickle current suppressed consciousness.

‘It will take several sessions before leptosoul imagery is clear. The symbols we start with are basic: itch, thirst, hunger, fatigue, and the sex drive – things the medulla can understand. Itch is useful for localizing a sensory message. It is superior to pain or temperature for leptosoul purposes, because an itch stimulates you to do something. Pain often does nothing more than trigger the spinal reflex of withdrawal. Higher centres aren’t involved. The itch gets you to scratch – a complex motor response. Notice how his encephalogram registers this itch – a peripheral sensation of ants crawling on the skin – formication. See how it can be moved around his sensory cortex to correspond to various points on his anatomy.’

After a brief rest period the alpha rhythm returned. Then Drum watched the tape machine torture ARNOLD with thirst – probably one of the oldest phylogenetic memories, dating back to the period when life forms left the seas. Hypertonic solutions bathed key vessel nerve endings, making him physiologically thirsty. Neurological thirst triggered by a sonic finger probing into the thirst centre of the brain stem. Optic images brought psychological thirst – skeletons, dry leaves, dust devils whirling against a desert mirage. Physical reinforcement was added with skin heat and a throat itch. Four types of stimulation produced a convincing image of thirst – four-dimensional thirst. ARNOLD writhed and suffered. The tape machine waited until all the indicators had moved into the red zone. Then it rewarded him with withdrawal of the four-dimensional stimuli. The water was wide, deep, and cool. Ice chips filled his mouth and hypotonic fluids flooded his stomach.

Mullah was pleased.

Another rest period to allow the brainwaves a moment to stabilise.

‘Hunger is a bit dangerous,’ warned Mullah. ‘Part of the physiological stimulation is hypoglycaemia. When we drop the blood glucose below forty milligrams we occasionally lose a Citizen or two: brain damage during the convulsions. Here we go for the four steps: physical – tubes empty the stomach; neural – sonic stimulation of the medullar “hunger centre”; physio – insulin drops the blood sugar to create cell hunger; and psych – images of skeletons with an itch in the mouth and stomach. Four-dimensional hunger.’

ARNOLD wanted to stuff meat pies and sponge cakes into his mouth.

‘We usually end all hunger sequences with the hand of the Hive bringing pies and cakes,’ explained Mullah. ‘It can’t do any harm, and it may increase Hive loyalty.’

Drum agreed.

‘Sex is an important warrior drive. We use it for imprinting and motivating other lesser drives.’

‘But ARNOLD is not pubertal.’

‘No matter. We can program a variety of encounters that are sexual enough for imprinting – basal ganglia respond to stimulation of the “sex centre” at any age. Genital itch and conquest imagery is all we need. A mature male is the best engineered warrior in terms of muscle and bone. ARNOLD will have his testosterone before he goes into battle.’

Fatigue was the last orientation tape. The itch was a bright red asterisk behind the eyelids, and neural stimuli induced alpha waves.

‘That appeared to be a fruitful session,’ said Drum.

‘It isn’t over,’ said Mullah. ‘We can move on now to test his reaction to organised, sequential stimuli. The tapes will now move from language to communication of experiences. He can be shown things and be an observer. That is easy. But can we get his subconscious to actually enter the presented scene and be a living part of it?’

Drum glanced at the sleeping giant. ‘What will we start with?’

‘One of our childhood fantasies. By imitating cognitive steps an infant goes through we can get him to live the tapes.’

Drum picked up a helmet terminal and shared ARNOLD’s visual and auditory inputs.

LEPTOSOUL: CRAYON CREATURES

Click! The waxy pigment formed a circle with dots for eyes and a line mouth. Legs attached at the neck and arms replaced ears – a human head-creature. Above, on the same coarse construction paper, more crayon lines appeared: a small blue head with a beak and wings for ears – a bird. ARNOLD’s viewpoint remained off the paper as trees, flowers, and assorted insects appeared. All were simple circles, identifying detail kept at a minimum. He relaxed. His ‘eye’ moved closer to the paper. A bee moved along, leaving a string of Zs. This grew to an audible buzz. A butterfly flitted from flower to flower, followed by its shadow. Gradually the scene came to life – simple paper cut-outs at first – but colour, sound, and odour followed the cartoon-like movements.

He saw his own face on the head-creature. His feet felt the grass under the creature. As the creature walked ARNOLD felt the movements in his own legs. He stepped on warm dust, cool grass, and a hard granular stone. A paper cloud passed overhead and he felt the breeze on his face. The tree flexed into three dimensions, with coarse bark and falling leaves. ARNOLD was clearly inside the creature now, seeing, smelling, walking and feeling was the crayon drawing sensed.

Click! END OF TAPE

NEW LEPTOSOUL: DADDY LONGLEGS

Click! ARNOLD glanced around the hollow head he inhabited – wires, pulleys, scopes, speakers, and earphones. He was not in a living creature. It was a prop, an artificial head-creature. He pressed his eyes against the optics and peered around. His cabin-like ‘head’ hung from eight arched legs – four coordinated pairs. The second pair waved overhead like antennae. The other six found support on a variety of greenish struts and beams – the scaffolding of magnified grass. As he moved, his antennae-legs picked up odours and textures from musty soil, sweet flowers, and bitter stem juice. Walking went awkwardly until he found the small aromatic pool of purple fluid. Flexing his legs, he lowered his face to the pool, drank, and felt intoxicated. Walking went smoothly then. ARNOLD had eight obedient legs. He ran up and down high swaying stalks. One of this legs became the web-organ. Spinnerets laid out a stout line, which he cast about, tying flowers to blades of grass. He laid out a high, swaying footbridge and crossed from one flower to another. Nectar and pollen filled his mouth. A fat insect fluttered by slowly. He cast out his web and reeled it in. The wing muscles tasted rich and meaty.

Fear! The silhouette of a praying mantis sent ARNOLD scampering for cover. His muscles ached with the thought of a futile struggle in those vice-like forearms. His skin crawled with phantom teeth marks. When the danger passed, ARNOLD resumed his play. Click!

‘That was pleasant enough.’ Drum smiled as he removed his sensory helmet. ‘Very nice! And it appears that ARNOLD enjoyed it too. Look at those indicators!’

Mullah nodded.

‘Since he is to be a warrior, we might as well offer him a little vivid imagery to take home with him.’

LIPTOSOUL: ROOSTER

Click! ARNOLD perched on a low fir limb, reigning over beautiful, speckled Frost Grey hens. They scratched and pecked in musty humus. He smelled aromatic pine needles and saw glistening grubs. The power of his spur stubs made him cock of the knoll. The day before he had knocked a great yellow cat from this very limb. His sex urge pulled him from his perch. He swooped down on a pretty little hen and grabbed her by the short feathers. She squawked and struggled, but he pinned her to the ground, copulated, and strutted off with a cavalier air. Flustered, she preened her disarray. Crowing, he returned to his perch. Click!

The leptosoul experience puzzled young ARNOLD. Residual euphoria left him with the desire to crow. As he gathered up his chains he stared at the links for a long time. They seemed out of place now that he had relived part of his regal background. He, ARNOLD, had been a king: a feathered warrior, a game fowl.

Drum noticed the sadness in the young giant’s eyes as he locked the heavy bracelets. ‘Be a good boy and return to your loading dock. Here’s a green-one sweet.’

After the giant left, Drum turned to Mullah.

‘That leptosoul must have been to hard on the boy. I’d better review the next ones you have planned.’

‘They are all pretty potent. I’d advise you to take a two-dimensional exposure – skip the neural and physiological tracks.’

‘OK. What have you got?’

‘We were going to give him the Flint and the Tapeworm leptosoul – a Stone Age conflict.’

Drum climbed up on the alter-couch. The Medimecks only used about half the hookups. His consciousness would remain to protect him.

LEPTOSOUL: FLINT AND TAPEWORMS

Click! Drum blinked at his gnarled hands – dark and calloused. His campfire glowed and popped sparks as he turned the spear shaft. Rawhide puckered in the heat: the lock-tied bindings that held the flint blade. He glanced out over the fog of Cattail Meadow. Another fire blinked back at him – a single yellow eye in the darkness. Drum knew that Running Elk sat by the fire preparing his spear. Dawn would bring the contest to see who lived at Cattail.

His nose wrinkled as the rawhide charred. He lifted his spear and rubbed wax berries over the hot bindings. Continuing down the shaft with the stain, he finger-painted prayer symbols – drawings that would be incomplete until he added the blood of his enemy. He crushed more berries and circled his eyes with blue. Four blue lines on each shoulder, and his totem was complete – Blue Owl would hold his lance high. A gnawing in his belly was ignored by the neolithic, but a bit of Drum’s mind surfaced to recognize the pain as
D. Latum
, the fish tapeworm. Too long had he wandered the Salmon River. It was time to settle.

His mate walked out of the darkness and threw aromatic leaves on the fire. Her eyes begged him to avoid the conflict. Drum-Blue Owl felt the hardness of his own expression as he shamed her into more prayers and less tears. Her belly grew with their child – a son, he had been assured by their shaman. It had cost him two arms of dried fish, but it was worth it to know of the male child. He knew it was time to settle. A son needed land. The tapes would weaken a child if he roamed the river, and a warrior can’t afford to be weak.

Sunrise brought the three chiefs to witness. They entered majestically, robed and feathered, and rode to their vantage to judge the conflict. Drum-Blue Owl tested his spear point against a mossy log, then mounted White Pony and kneed her carefully to the crest of the knoll. He held his lance high. The fog lifted and he studied his prize – the meadow – rolling green brimmed with cottonwoods, a two-pony stream, fish, game, and good soil for growing tame plants.