The Celestial Steam Locomotive (The Song of Earth) (17 page)

For the last couple of hundred years Zozula had maintained a stable of shrugleggers and vampiros in the quarters for use on his occasional forays Outside.
 

Manuel bit into a slab of food, which, if he had known its constituents, he would never have allowed near his mouth. But the principles of the Dome’s recycling system were mercifully unknown to him. The sticky confection tasted good and the prospect of action began to appeal. “All right,” he said. “We have to start looking somewhere.”
 

The Girl said uneasily, “It’s not far, is it?”
 

“We will ride shrugleggers,” said Zozula and left them for a moment, to return with three shambling beasts the like of which Manuel had never seen and the Girl had certainly never dreamed of.
 

“What are they?” she asked. “They don’t... bite, do they?” She was learning to anticipate pain.
 

“They’re harmless animals, bred many years ago in much the same way as the Specialists were bred. I believe there are bear genes in their make-up.”
 

Zozula was wrong, of course. The shrugleggers were discovered on Ilos III in the year 83,426 Cyclic. Armless bipeds with gigantic thighs, they foraged in the ooze of swamps and were brought back to Earth for use as beasts of burden in remote areas during a period when human philosophy was influenced by the Kikihuahua Examples.
 

Zozula strapped harnesses onto the creatures, providing seats high on their backs. “Come on, Girl. Manuel and I will help you up.”
 

A short while later they rode out into the morning sun, the shrugleggers striding steadily north, following the course of the stream that carried away the run-off from the Dome. Behind Zozula, jerking irritably at the rope fastened around its neck, a vampiro hopped and scuttled, trying to keep up.
 

No humans saw the departure of the Triad on their first quest. Only a scattering of guanacos, munching thoughtfully, raised their heads and watched them go by with expressions of supercilious disinterest. It was a quiet, warm morning and the delta forest could be seen as a smudge of green beyond the broad brown plain. Behind them, trails of smoke from the cooking fires of Pu’este rose vertically in the still air.
 

Above, wispy elongated clouds moved slowly eastward, out to sea. Manuel glanced at them unhappily, but said nothing. Presumably Zozula knew what he was doing.
 

By late afternoon Manuel was not so sure. The arid grassland was behind them and they were entering a transitional region of fleshy scrub and a few tall trees, and it was clear that their present rate of progress would bring them to the forest proper by nightfall. The sun hung low over the mountains to the west.
 

Finally Manuel called, “We have to stop!”
 

Zozula glanced around irritably but made no attempt to check the stride of his shruglegger.
 

Losing patience, Manuel shouted, “If you want to die, I don’t!” and brought his shruglegger to a choking halt by throwing his forearm around its neck and pulling back. He slid to the ground.
 

Stopping his beast, too, Zozula looked down at Manuel. “What do you mean, die? Are you suggesting there’s danger ahead?”
 

“There’s always danger in the dark. We have to camp here and now, because if we go any further it’ll be too late to light a fire. And I’m not going to be caught in the open without one.” As he spoke he was tugging up clumps of dry grass and piling them in a heap. Then he squatted down and, cocking an eye at the sun, began to focus the rays of his hemitrex—the hard shell of a jellyfish evolved to deflect harmful rays—and direct a cone of light onto the tinder. A wisp of smoke rose.
 

Zozula conceded defeat, scrambled from his shruglegger and helped the Girl down. Manuel began to cook strips of dried iguana on sticks that he pushed into the ground and set at an angle, while the Girl watched this demonstration of competence with some awe.
 

“I wouldn’t know how to do it,” she said. Even the wind on her face felt strange.
 

“You’ll learn,” said Manuel. Seeing Zozula was out of earshot, untying the vampiro, he added quietly, “I hope Zozula learns, too. All this is about as queer to him as it is to you, but he won’t admit it. There
is
danger, you know. Real danger. We have to take precautions.”
 

She said, “Just tell me what to do.”
 

“Here, take these sticks and cook yourself something to eat.”
 

Zozula arrived, leading the vampiro, which was blinking at the fire unhappily. “Now, then,” he said briskly, “we’ll just set up the vampiro and we’ll be all ready for the night. Oh—and you don’t have to eat that stuff, Girl. I have plenty of real food here.” He reached into a bag under the vampiro’s chin and produced squares of confectionery. The Girl, who had already gagged over a shred of half-raw iguana, took a piece gratefully.
 

“I’ll get used to your kind of food before long, Manuel,” she said. “I really will.”
 

Manuel grunted, munching with noisy appreciation at his meat. Then he stood in some alarm as Zozula clapped his hands with a sharp report.
 

“Stand back,” said the Keeper imperiously, “while I set up the vampiro.” He gestured to the animal, which didn’t move. Shouting an unintelligible command, he clapped his hands again.
 

Slowly, reluctantly, the vampiro began to open its huge, membranous wings.
 

The vampiro had been created at the Mordecai N. Whirst Institute many thousands of years ago as a traveling companion for members of various cults who, partly under the influence of the kikihuahua teachings, preferred an open-air life. The vampiros were basically huge bats that provided shelter and could be used as a light pack animal. When given the appropriate command, the vampiro would spread its huge wings, curving them around its body to form a tent that could sleep four humans.
 

If this operation is to be performed successfully, it is important that the vampiro’s wings should not touch the blazing sticks of a roaring fire.
 

Screeching and trailing smoke, the vampiro reared up and began to flap wildly, fanning sparks and embers into the faces of the Triad. With an oath, Zozula threw himself at the beast.
 

“Help me, Manuel!” he shouted. “The bastard’s trying to take off!”
 

Before the youth could move, however, the vampiro wrapped its wings protectively around itself, nursing its pain—and incidentally nursing Zozula, who found himself smothered in a leathery embrace. Manuel hesitated, torn between the need to help the Cuidador, whose face was turning purple, and the need to laugh. The Girl had no such dilemma. With no real appreciation of danger, she was almost crying with delight. This was much better than Dream Earth. The vampiro stood rigidly erect, clutching Zozula to its breast, so that only his long nose and furious eyes could be seen above the cloak of the creature’s wings. His muffled shouting ceased and his eyes began to bulge as the vampiro’s fingerbones tightened like steel bands across his chest.
 

Manuel seized a brand from the fire and waved it in front of the vampiro’s eyes. It stumbled backward, releasing Zozula, who fell to the ground, coughing weakly.
 

“The vampiro is not accustomed to fires,” he muttered. “You should have realized that. He’s spent most of his life in the Dome. You scared him out of his wits.”
 

Manuel hung his head. “We need the fire,” he said.
 

Zozula, recovering, began to bustle about, shepherding the vampiro to a safe distance from the flames, tethering the shrugleggers, who had been watching events with some alarm, taking an inventory of their meager food supply, and all the while stumbling over roots and bushes and cursing, being unused to walking on anything other than a smooth floor.
 

They spent the early hours of the night under the tent of the vampiro’s wings, but shortly after midnight the fire collapsed and the wind carried a drift of sparks toward the creature. Panic-stricken, it folded its wings about itself and shuffled rapidly away into the bush.
 

In the morning they awoke stiff with cold. A dank mist was rising from the river, and the sun, low in the east, was obscured by high, trailing cloud. Manuel shivered. Beside him the Girl stirred, wheezing. The fire had burned out and they couldn’t light another until the sun emerged. Manuel sat up. A half-memory came to him and he looked at the river thoughtfully.
 

“Did you hear anything during the night?” he asked the Girl. “Anything strange?”
 

“I heard a terrific screaming once. Then it stopped.”
 

“No—you always hear screaming at night. It’s animals getting killed. This was something different...” He heard it again in his mind—not a screaming, more like a keening. Voices raised in thin cries of sorrow.
 

“Where in hell is that vampiro?” grumbled Zozula, roused by their conversation. He scanned the scrub, staring at the wall of the nearby forest. “And what’s happened to our food?” he said suddenly.
 

Containers lay scattered and empty. The Triad regarded this mess in dismay. “We’ll have to go back,” said the Girl.
 

“We can catch our own food,” said Manuel.
 

“That stuff?” The memory of the dried iguana was vivid.
 

“There’ll be fruit in the forest. You don’t have to eat meat. We can catch fish and steal a few eggs. You’ll like it, Girl.” Manuel was disappointed at the prospect of returning to the Dome.
 

She looked at him. “All right, then.”
 

Zozula untied the shrugleggers and they mounted. “This is not a good start,” he said sternly. “I daresay we can find food, but unless we can track down the vampiro we’ll have no shelter at night. If the creature’s gone into the forest, we’ll never find him.”
 

“He wouldn’t go in there,” said Manuel.
 

“Why not?”
 

“His wings are too big for him to be able to fly in there. The trees are close together, you know? He’d never go anywhere he couldn’t escape from.” Manuel had an instinctive understanding of animals.
 

“Well, where is he, then?” asked Zozula irritably.
 

They found the vampiro less than a hundred meters away. The lead shruglegger, forging through the long grass, suddenly shied and almost threw Zozula from its back. Sliding to the ground, the Keeper regarded the remains of the vampiro’s carcass in some fear.
 

“There’s... there’s hardly anything left of him. What on Earth could have done that? Vampiros are vicious brutes in a fight. Whatever killed this one must have been very strong...” The thigh bones were cracked open, splintered by powerful jaws. Ants swarmed over the remains, picking the bones clean. The only recognizable parts of the giant bat were the wings, twisted backwards at an angle and draped over the grass, out of the way, so that the killer could get at the soft parts of the body.
 

“Jaguar,” said Manuel. “If we hadn’t lit a fire, we’d have gone the same way.”
 

“Dead, do you mean?” The Girl clung to her shruglegger’s neck, learning the ruthlessness of the real world and finding it frightening. “Totally Dead? Just like that, with no choice, no chance, or nothing?”
 

“You have to be careful Outside,” said Manuel gently.
 

They rode on into the forest. Now the shrugleggers began to prove their worth, forcing their way through the undergrowth with scarcely a pause, vines and creepers snapping like spiders’ webs before the thrust of their powerful thighs. The forest canopy closed overhead and they were enveloped in the warm, fetid smell of the place. Howler monkeys announced their presence with whooping yells and the cries were taken up elsewhere, echoing into the depths of the jungle.
 

Around noon Manuel raised his head, sniffing, then directed his mount down a barely visible trail through dense brush. The giant strides of the shruglegger carried it at a deceptive speed while Manuel leaned out, peering down. Suddenly he threw himself to the ground and, after a brief struggle, emerged from the undergrowth with a small squealing peccary, just as Zozula and the Girl came hurrying into view.
 

“What do you mean by going off like that and leaving us?” Zozula asked. “What’s that you’ve got there?” He looked flustered, glaring down at Manuel, breathless, as though he’d been running himself.
 

“It’s a peccary.”
 

“I can see that. What’s it for?”
 

“To eat, of course.” The little creature kicked and screamed.
 

“Eat? But it’s
alive
!”
 

Manuel pulled out his knife and expertly drew it across the throat of the animal. Blood sprayed. The peccary stopped kicking. Manuel held it upside down, allowing the blood to drain warmly to the ground. The Girl watched with open-mouthed interest. Zozula, turning away, was violently sick into the bush.
 

They cooked the peccary in the next clearing they came to, for as Manuel pointed out, in the forest you could only cook around the middle of the day when the sun shone directly down, affording occasional shafts of light where the hemitrex could be used. It was just another piece of Outside lore that convinced Zozula of the boy’s value to the expedition—and of the shortcomings in his own knowledge. He was beginning to realize how lucky he’d been to survive his own previous short trips Outside.
 

So they ate the peccary—Manuel with relish, Zozula cautiously at first, but with increasing enthusiasm, the Girl with difficulty and at the cost of one small, almost rootless tooth. “Suck the meat as we go along,” Manuel suggested. “There’s no need to hurry it.” And he found some fruit too, ripe, dark globes of sweet pulp that she was able to take quite easily.