through Brone's side of the camp laying the blame on Natch's shoulders.
'Why would he do something like that?' exclaimed Horvil the first time he heard the rumor. 'Do you even have the slightest bit of evidence?'
'The fire started near Brone's side of the camp,' one of the boys told him. 'Everyone knows those two hate each other. Natch was one of the last ones out, and his cabin is fine.'
'That's totally ridiculous. That's not evidence at all.'
The other boy admitted his theory had little in the way of factual support. 'But come on, Horv-you're his best friend, right? Doesn't he scare you?'
Horvil bristled. 'All I know is that Natch's test scores were higher than half the class combined. That means he's smarter than you. And that means he knows setting fire to the camp would hurt him just as much as Brone.' The conversation came to an abrupt halt soon after.
There was much to do. The boys went to work right away, picking every edible seed, berry and root on the horizon, repairing and filling the well, making defensive preparations against unknown enemies. The boys of CAMP 11 spent their spare time in an engineering frenzy, attempting to coax the last bit of practicality out of the everyday items around them. A frayed rope strand and several bottles could be converted into a makeshift dumbwaiter. Broken glass could be spread along the roads as an early intruder alert system. Spare rolls of plastic could be conscripted to channel excess rainwater to the well.
After a week of trying to pick up the pieces and shore up the damaged cabins, it became clear to the initiates that all their preparations might not be sufficient for them to survive the winter. An argument sprang up about how closely the proctors were monitoring their situation here in the wilderness. If the situation grew too precarious, would the proctors come and rescue them? The Proud Eagle wouldn't just let dozens of its pupils starve to death out here, would it?
And then, without warning, winter descended upon them.
The snow marched into CAMP 11 under an imperious wind, eager to pound and break any human habitation in its path. Within days of the winter solstice, the boys had abandoned all non-essential duties to concentrate on the snow. But there was much more snow than hands to shovel it. Milky precipitation smothered the plants and killed off the remaining vegetation. The initiates soon discovered that, unlike the geosynchron-regulated snow to which they were accustomed, natural snow could sting and burn. Insulation against the cold became their biggest worry.
A debilitating flu hopped from boy to boy and gave the initiates their first taste of real illness. Back in the civilized world, OCHREs diagnosed all their ailments, and bio/logic programs automatically dealt with them by consulting the Dr. Plugenpatch databases. No more. 'I remember reading that you're supposed to blow your nose when it gets clogged up like this,' Horvil announced earnestly one day. 'Does anybody know how to do that?' No one did.
The boys were startled to discover that even without OCHREs and bio/logic programming and Dr. Plugenpatch, the human body had a remarkable ability to heal itself. They came to realize that all the bio/logic technology society relied on for its survival had not been constructed out of whole cloth; it was patterned after cruder motifs passed down through millions of years of genetic heritage. Natch, Horvil and most of the other boys quickly bounced back from the flu and resumed their duties.
But a few of the boys lingered on in their illnesses, their bodies unable to fully repel the alien microbes wreaking havoc in their systems. The argument about proctor intervention flared up again. But if anyone expected the proctors to suddenly swoop down from the clouds and rescue them from their misery, they were disappointed.
And so, under a chill wind, the initiates all huddled in the center of the camp one afternoon and tried to hammer out a strategy.
Now, under the pressure of starvation and with the added encouragement of the arson rumors, the much- discussed antagonism between Brone and Natch surfaced with a vengeance. Natch declared that CAMP 11 was ruined, and their only chance for survival lay in finding one of the other encampments out in the wilderness. Some of these other camps had to have some stored food available, he argued, as theirs had upon their arrival. But Brone immediately raised objections to this strategy, his opposition all the more intense because Natch proposed it.
'We can salvage what's left,' stated Brone. His voice boomed with the strong and vibrant tones of a born politician. 'We can survive here. But if we leave, there's no telling what we're going to find out in the wilderness.'
'And what are we going to live on?' yelled Natch. His voice was a crow's squawk, the sound of metal grating on metal. 'The stores we have are almost gone.'
'There are deer running around. We can hunt.'
Natch let out a dismissive snort. 'You're saying we should start eating real meat? Those aren't synthetic deer out there. We'll all get sick again, right when we can't afford to lose any time.'
'But we'll survive.'
The conflict raged through the afternoon, and gradually the boys began to polarize into two separate groups. Occasionally, someone would manage to insert a fact or an opinion into the discussion, but by and large it remained a conflict between Natch and Brone, the two stubborn boys at the top of their class. When the sun finally slunk down over the horizon, someone suggested the question be put to a vote. Should they abandon their adopted home and search for other encampments, or soldier on here at CAMP 11 and hunt for food?
Natch lost.
The boy sat in the center of the ruined camp for several hours, oblivious to the whispers of the rest. All his frustration and humiliation from the Figaro Fi episode rushed over him in a black rage that clouded over his senses. Eventually, the rest of the boys abandoned the convocation and went off to find sleep.
Natch sat and sulked, his mind whirling. The stench of death lay over Brone's plan, as obvious to Natch as the wind or the rain. He couldn't just follow Brone to his grave, could he?
Horvil put a hand on his shoulder. 'You know what Sheldon Surina said?' he remarked to Natch quietly. 'He said, The man who doesn't know how to compromise only has himself to blame. '
'I'd rather think about what Lucco Primo said,' rasped Natch in reply.
'What's that?'
'Never bet on the optimist. '
The boys had seen little of the local wildlife during their eight months at CAMP 11, but that didn't mean the predators weren't out there. Generations of black bears and wolves prowled the woods nearby, living out their own dramas of survival with nary a thought to the humans in their midst. They were not prone to violence, but the Autonomous Revolt had decimated their natural habitats and taught them to be less forgiving. The miserable winter drew them closer and closer to the human encampments in search of food.
Horvil was the first boy to run afoul of the black bears. He was tromping purposefully through the snow gathering firewood when he stumbled on one of the larger specimens. Two hundred-fifty kilograms of ursine horror lunged at Horvil with no warning, sending the boy darting back to the camp at a speed he wouldn't have believed himself capable of.
'Bear!' he yelped as he stumbled down the hillside, shedding sticks of firewood the whole way. 'Bear! Help! Bear!'
The camp instantly descended into chaos. Before anyone could propose a coherent strategy, Brone rounded up a small contingent of boys and armed them with torches. Horvil and a number of others scampered into their cabins and barricaded the doors, assuming the bear would wander off on its own accord. Natch, meanwhile, was out on one of his aimless peregrinations around the woods.
The initiates would debate what happened next for many years afterward.
Brone and his comrades located the beast soon enough. He had headed straight for the storage silo containing their hard-earned stockpile of fruit. But the boys' bravado was quickly snuffed by the sight of a cornered bear rising up on hind legs with claws extended. Brone made a feint with his torch, which only succeeded in frightening the bear into a rage. He charged at one of Brone's companions, sliced him neatly across the chest, then tripped and fell directly onto another boy. A few of the remaining initiates managed to toss their bleeding comrades over their shoulders and make a break for the cabins, while the rest scattered in confusion.
Natch, returning from his walk, observed all this from a distance. Fools, he thought. You can't accomplish
