anything without a strategy. He realized that if the camp were to survive this latest incursion, he would have to take control. It was a strange feeling, to be responsible for others and not just oneself. He tried to pretend that he was not accountable, that he could just run off and let the rest of the initiates fend for themselves. Then the image of poor hapless Horvil came unbidden to his head, Horvil standing and pleading with him, You'll take care of me, won't you, Natch? He cursed his friend's name and quickly devised a plan.
Seeing that the bear was now pursuing the firebrands that had taunted him moments earlier, Natch rushed into the fray and ripped a torch from the hand of a campmate. The boy, stunned, put up no resistance. Natch instantly reversed course, waving his torch at the beast and leading him in the opposite direction, away from the camp.
Natch's thoughts were jumbled, incoherent. Primal reflex took over and dispelled any more complex emotion. He could feel the pulse of blood rushing through his legs, the lash and sting of the branches across his face. The bear was constantly a few steps behind, growling, ready to pounce and devour him. Yet he knew these woods like nobody else in the camp did. He knew exactly where he was going.
Until, as chance would have it, he spotted Brone.
Natch whipped around and headed in his direction.
Brone had made his way to a clearing on top of a low hill, hoping to gather his wits there. His torch had snuffed out in the snow somewhere during the frantic escape from the bear, and Brone was now busy scanning the area for a suitable branch to use as a cudgel.
He had only a split-second to react when Natch came sprinting by at top speed, and then the black bear was upon him.
The carnage that followed haunted Natch for many years to come. You should have listened to me, he would say to Brone during these midnight pantomimes. You should have realized we couldn't have made it in that camp. You should have recognized you were wrong. Then he would turn to the other initiates and uncage his fury on them. Why didn't you ask better questions? Why did you submit to Brone's leadership and not mine? He reserved the bulk of his wrath for himself. If only you had been a better politician. If only you had known how to cultivate friendships among the boys. If only you hadn't been so weak.
12
Natch had to stare at him for several hours in the cramped cabin of a Falcon four-seater under the watchful eyes of a fat irritable pilot and a steely-eyed paramedic. Every few minutes, the paramedic would get up from her seat to examine the gnarled stump that had once been Brone's arm. She would bend down to his chest and listen for the faint wheezing sounds, then she would turn to Natch with a murderous look that seemed quite inappropriate for a healer. Natch was beyond emotion; he simply looked back, expressionless. Don't they have to take an oath of non-violence or something? he wondered.
'Maybe we should just take him straight to a Preparation compound,' suggested the pilot. 'Cape Town's a long way away, and they got a Preparation compound right near here. I run back and forth to that place all the time.'
The paramedic nodded absently. 'That won't be necessary.'
'You sure? He's suffering, I can see that. They'll take care of him down there, make sure he goes easy-'
'I know what happens in those compounds, Clar,' the woman said with a tone of finality. 'This one doesn't need to join the ranks of the Prepared-not yet, anyway. He's going to pull through.'
For the first time, Natch noticed that the pilot and the paramedic both wore dartguns. He gazed at the cartridges of OCHRE-tipped darts hanging low on the guns' underbellies and tried to imagine what kind of code they contained. A paralysis program, maybe, or a routine to cause temporary blindness? He couldn't quite figure out why the two were armed in the first place. Were they looking after his safety, or Brone's?
Eventually, Natch decided it was pointless to search for routine in a trip that was anything but. Nobody had given him a chance to gather his belongings or say goodbye to Horvil; they did not even tell him whether he would be returning to finish his last few months of initiation. The pilot had simply yanked him out of his cabin and thrown him into the Falcon next to the bloody, twitching Brone without a word of explanation. The whole operation smelled of sweat and desperate improvisation.
As they began their descent into Cape Town, Natch craned his neck to catch a glimpse out the front windows. He could see a small squad of Defense and Wellness Council officers in crisp white robes standing at attention on the runway. Their presence kept a crowd of fifty at bay while the Falcon completed its vertical landing sequence. Natch could see a pack of drudges and Brone's anxious parents among the throng and was suddenly glad the hive had enlisted the Council's protection. The mob might or might not be daunted by the shuttle crew's dartguns, but nobody would dare assault him in plain view of Len Borda's troops. The code in a Council officer's darts could very well be lethal.
Only after Natch had been hustled indoors did he realize that the Council squad was not there to ensure his safety. No, they were still out on the runway waiting for the second Falcon, which had been following close behind.
They were waiting to unload the bodies.
It wasn't the first time Serr Vigal had to duck out of a fundraising pitch at a moment's notice because of Natch. It wouldn't be the last. When the news arrived this time, he was talking to a consortium of LPRACGs a hundred million kilometers away on Mars about spinal cord bandwidth. Vigal thought about hopping on the next Earthbound shuttle, but decided he couldn't afford the delay and headed for the public multi facilities instead. Two days later, he was still waiting for a long-distance multi connection to open up. Finally, he grew impatient and decided to blow his entire Vault account on a teleportation instead.
By the time Serr Vigal arrived at the Cape Town TeleCo station, groggy and ill-tempered from the four-and- a-half-hour transfer process, Natch's name had permeated the Data Sea like a foul odor.
His experience became known to the public as 'the Shortest Initiation.' The term came from the drudges, whose coverage of the affair showcased their ability to reduce a complex set of human events to the common denominators of Good and Evil. Vigal was saddened to discover that Natch had been assigned the latter role. GREED AND SOLIPSISM: THE LAST LESSONS OF THE HIVE? read one of the story headlines. OUR ANCESTORS MAY NOT HAVE HAD OCHRES, BUT THEY HAD ETHICS, opined another. CIVILITY IS DEAD, claimed a third. The Proud Eagle tried to convince the public that accidental deaths happened every year during initiation, but the people were not placated. Yes, occasionally there were mishapsbrawls and knife fights, flu outbreaks, once even an avalanche-but three boys from one hive mauled by a bear? Unprecedented. Inexcusable. Governmentalists and libertarians alike took to the floors of their L-PRACGs to denounce Natch and the Proud Eagle.
The headmaster and three of the senior proctors met Serr Vigal at the foot of the TeleCo station platform. They bowed before him in a very poor impression of humility.
'So Natch knows I'm on my way to get him?' said the neural programmer.
'I'm afraid we can't permit him to go anywhere yet,' replied the headmaster gravely. 'Natch is still fighting off the infections he contracted in the wild. I'm sorry, but rules are rules.'
Vigal was in no mood for games. 'Nonsense,' he sighed. 'Show me these medical reports that say he's still infected.' The proctors exchanged surreptitious looks as the headmaster's charade quickly col lapsed. She forwarded the documents to Vigal, who projected them at arm's length for anybody to see. 'It's quite obvious the boy doesn't have anything,' he said at length, pointing to the array of charts floating in the air between them. 'Blood pressure, heart rate, OCHRE functions-all normal. I'm afraid you have no legal right to keep the boy isolated here any longer.'
The headmaster slumped visibly. Her eyes darted sidewise at the proctors with a silent accusation: You said he wouldn't give us any trouble. 'Please understand-we can't let Natch go until the hive finishes its official inquiry. The board of directors might still decide to prosecute him.'
'Prosecute him?' said Vigal with furrowed brow. 'What would they prosecute him for?'
