Call Me Ishmael

Chapter 18

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So the Bugriders we defeated were only four; a scouting party perhaps, called in to capture us by the Unseemly Graw.   Now one of them was no doubt speeding toward the city of Swarm  to warn them of our approach.  There was no need for secrecy, so Splice guided the Bugrider with a steady hand across the wide open plain.  I thought about Finnie, and worried about what the Swarm was doing to her.  We were on our way to take care of that matter, if we could, and we could go no faster.

It was hard to tell how far we traveled.  The landscape was absolutely featureless, and it smelled like a decaying raccoon.  There was nothing to eat, and nothing to drink.  I know we were all suffering, but Bety and Splice did not complain.  They were so intent on looking toward the horizon that I was able to step into the rear part of the Bugrider and do some serious thinking.

I tried to find a connection in the events of the past few hours.  After all, I had seen the sloop on my sixteenth birthday, and the current mess  began in the first third of my thirty-third year.  The next speed on the old record turntables was forty-five.  I considered, thought, and rejected a number of notions, until I worked out the dates and realized my father had been forty-five when he had disappeared.  Seventy-eight, the next and final speed, had the potential to be a very bad year, if the entire multiverse did not implode in the next day or so. 

A darker spot began to define itself on the horizon, first as a spot, then a bump, and then a hill.  It grew in our vision like a tumor, and it had all the attractiveness of one.  It was a large, domed city, built high on the only elevation in sight, and it was truly ugly.  It was a dark, deep, brown; the color of raw sewage, and it had the same glowing sort of oozy light of the Bugrider group.  Even without Splice’s nod of acknowledgment, I knew where we were.  This was the city of the Swarm, their true home; and where Finnie was captive.  It was also, without a doubt, fully alert to our approach.

“Well, here goes nothing,” I said.

The Bugrider stopped in midair and lost altitude.  Bety roared.  “Splice, what the dog’s feet are you doing?  My stomach is too empty for this!  I'm hungry enough to eat a rancid raccoon, or even my wife's cooking.”

Splice’s thin arms shuddered with muscles I didn’t realize the desk-bound girl had as she struggled to keep the Bugrider in the air.  “It’s dead,” she panted. 

We dropped down to the sandy dirt.  As we settled onto ground, other Bugriders rose around us, sand streaming from their riders.  They had been buried, hidden in the sand, and there were at least twenty of them.

The nearest spoke.  “Resistance is futile, and consumption is anticipated this evening.  Place your weapons on the ground.”

I froze with horror.  Was this the end?  And if it was, did it matter if everything was going to implode in twenty-six or seven hours?  Bety kicked my ankle, and I nearly fell over.

“Agree,” he muttered.

“Okay, okay.  We surrender, but we demand to…oh, I don’t know.  We don’t want to be eaten.”  I reached for my gun to toss it over the side.

Bety dropped his ax.  “Leave your gun on,” he whispered, “They won’t know what it is.”

Splice stood erect.  “Let’s get it over with, then.  But I warn you, I’m going to taste terrible.  I drink about six bio-carbines a day to discourage this sort of thing.”

The being spoke again.  “I am Graw the Unpleasant, and I must be honest.  The Swarm finds the taste of bio-carbine to be both delicious and refreshing.”