Beowulf's Children
Chapter 29

CHILDREN OF THE DREAM

Moribus antiquis res stat Romana virisque. 
(The Roman state stands by ancient customs, and its manhood.)
-ENNIUS, Annals

    Two rows of electrified fences greeted them as they drove the herd toward Shangri-La.
    A sheer granite expanse of mountains rose behind the base camp to the north, solid and impassive. Steps and supply caverns had been cut into it. These could also serve as shelters in an emergency. There was no deep running water to the north for nearly two hundred kilometers. The closest deep water to the camp was the river twenty klicks east--well beyond ordinary grendel range, except in rainy seasons. In winter and rain they would have to take special precautions.
    The sights and smells of a healthy, active camp assailed them as they rode up, singing and enjoying themselves.
    Justin waited for the first fence to shut down and the warning lights atop it to blink off. Two attendants swung the gate open, and welcomed them in.
    "How was the trip?" 
    "Except for Stu," he said soberly, "it was great." 
    Long faces, nods of understanding.
    A drawbridge spanned the horseshoe trench between the two fences. There was no way in or out save across the double pits, by skeeter, or up the mountainside. Every corner of Shangri-La was protected by automatic sensors with links directly to Cassandra.
    A single electrified fence surrounded the forty acres of experimental farmland beyond the main encampment. The electric fence was lightly charged at all times, but the computers could switch to higher voltages in an eyeblink. Watchdogs roamed freely, their collars keyed to the fence's frequency. Irritation increased in direct ratio to their nearness to the fence. After the first week, the collars had been turned down. No dog had been hurt.
    The growl of tractors, the laughter of children greeted them.
    Justin moved to the far side of the drawbridge, and let the chamels through. The herd hardly protested anymore, as if the snow grendel attack had broken their spirit--or proved the good intentions of their new masters.
    The sounds of happy laughter were evidence of the one thing that had caused the greatest debate between the generations. The children.
    Clearly, the Star Born had the right to bring their own children with them. Although there had been debate, there were no solid grounds to deny it.
    So the age of consent was set at sixteen years. There were a few Star Born between the ages of ten and sixteen who had been allowed to accompany older brothers and sisters. This was for individual families to decide.
    The outer gate swung closed, and the spotting skeeters buzzed over the main pads.
    Four skeeters had gone out on the run, two weeks ago.
    Three returned. Justin shook his head. Snow, dammit. He hadn't thought about that, and Stu was dead, and Katya came that close. But . . . they had taken out five grendels with a single casualty.
    The first grendel to enter Camelot had killed seven, and wounded many more. One grendel had nearly devastated the entire colony. But that was twenty years ago. 
    They were learning. They would have to learn even faster.
    The chamels were herded through the second fence, and across the second drawbridge, as Justin swung down off his horse.
    The rotors on her skeeter were still revolving as Katya jumped down. She spotted him as she stopped at a data post and uplinked her flight records. Then she ran at him, thudded against his chest. He threw one arm around her, feeling . . . protective?
    It wasn't the kind of feeling that he had for Jessica. Perhaps that was familiarity. Family. It felt good to have Katya next to him--
    "You need a refresher course," he said. 
    He was holding a marble statue. 
    She said, "It wasn't my fault."
    "Tomorrow, the playtent. We'll shoot some virtual grendels together. I'll spot--"
    "Spot me nothing."
    The camp was all prefabricated buildings, squat one-story jobs with spacious windows and red roofs. The streets were wide, with enough room to play or wander. Herds of dogs and a few older kids ran in the streets. It was like Camelot made new. First the area was sterilized with flamethrowers, then Earth grasses were planted.
    Then the dirigible created a series of supply depots along the way, along the rock islands dotting the ocean between Camelot and the continent.
    One step at a time, until the proposed camp site was supplied and protected. Only then did the human beings enter to construct fences and buildings.
    Jessica and Aaron ran up from the side, laughing, Chaka and Trish behind them. "Me for the mess hall," Aaron called.
    Justin agreed heartily. Dinner sounded great.

    Justin felt comfortable in Shangri-La. There was nobody older than twenty, and everything was made to their specifications. It was like a larger, wealthier version of Surf's Up.
    When they entered the mess hall there was a roar. They hoisted Aaron up on their shoulders and carried him around the room, and he was handed a huge flagon of beer. Conversations were conducted at a yell: the walls throbbed with an Abo-Asian jazz-fusion performed by computer wave-table synthesis from scores and themes they fed to Cassandra. Someone had dubbed that the Shangri-La Symphony Orchestra.
    It was raucous, and it was home.
    Posted on the walls were the totals for the week's work quotas. The entire encampment, the eighty-five of them over here from the island, was broken up into six teams, each with their own duties and responsibilities. The discipline and organization was taken over by internal teams. There was play, there was revelry. There were biweekly orgies. But God help anyone who didn't meet his quota, or was too drunk, too drugged up or sexed out to take his security post, or till the fields. It wasn't an economic system for the ages, but within this small community where everyone knew everyone else, it worked well enough. There was enough to eat, and there were some luxuries, and everyone could spend at least half time on interesting work.
    That night's service detail brought in the food, and the conversation died to a gentle roar.
    "Well, what do you think?" Edgar asked Jessica.
    "I think it looks great. More paint on the inside, and a few more decorations. The most important thing is the new buildings."
    "Most important thing is that all of the quotas are met. The dirigible is coming in day after tomorrow, and we want to be certain that we're ready." 
    "What's the tally?"
    "Nine tonnes of refined ore--Deadwood is running fine. Zack should be happy."
    She noticed that the conversation had died down. Everyone understood the question behind the question.
    Edgar Sikes said, "Nobody has the remotest idea what happened in Deadwood Pass. We've analyzed from every angle. Whatever killed Linda and Joe was just gone. We haven't a clue. We shipped in a grendel-proof shelter and sealed it and installed air tanks. It should stop anything." 
    "Best bet?"
    "Eh. Some sort of gas cloud," Edgar said. "Volcanic origin, something that acted like an acid." 
    "But wasn't an acid?"
    "Certainly didn't leave acidic traces. But that's the way it acted, and that's what we have to assume." 
    He dipped his finger in water and drew on the table. "Look here. The best guess we have is that the wind blowing up over the mountains carried a pocket of caustic gas with it. It hit them before they had any chance at all."
    "And Cadzie?"
    He bared his teeth. "Don't know. Best guess is that she sealed the baby in the blanket. The acid cloud passed before it could leak in. But Aaron's sure it was something alive, something that veers away from Cadzie blue." 
    "Sealed it airtight? Against something that ate the flesh from their bones, and left no trace? You believe this?" 
    " . . . No," he said. His plump, babyish face was tight with frustration. "But I don't believe in an invisible monster either!" 
    "Monsters from the id," someone sang.
    "Oh, shut up. Anyway, we've combed the area. Dirt, rock, and soil samples. We found nothing out of the ordinary. The usual decomposed leaves, crushed rock, animal droppings, and general crud that makes dirt anywhere." 
    "Animal droppings?" Chaka asked, his interest roused. "What kind of animal?"
    "We don't know," he said. "Not turds, more like a fine dry mist of concentrated shit sprayed over everything. Aaron was sure it was something alive. You hear about that?" 
    "Yeah."
    "The Scribe has a blue lip. There are other Avalon plants and animals that use blue to signal poison. I found four in Cadmann's garden at the Stronghold! We looked hard at that slice of skin Aaron cut, and it really is poisonous. But Cadzie blue is a darker color."
    Chaka brooded. "Dammit, Edgar, it's such a neat notion." He suddenly grinned. "And Aaron is so massively embarrassed."
    Like wind passing over a wheat field, heads turned toward Aaron . . . who was apparently half-asleep.
    Edgar said, "We have a piece of the lip itself. We have views through several sets of war specs. We have Justin's flash photographs. Cadzie blue is darker."
    "Why don't you let me take a look at that stuff you collected?"
    "Well . . . all right, Chaka. Right after dinner?"

    Chaka smeared a trace of the dropping sample on an analyzer sheet, and ran it into tile kiln. 
    "What are you looking for?" Justin asked.
    "I don't know. But Pop considers it to be the largest threat to the colony."
    Aaron nodded. Somewhat to Justin's surprise, Aaron had wanted to come over, had cut his participation in the revelry short.
    Columns of numbers danced in the air as the computer began its analysis.
    Aaron ran his finger through the air next to the column. "Phosphorus, carbon. Lots of nitrogen."
    Justin asked, "As much as you would expect from a carnivore?" 
    "Sure. Urea--"
    "And this stuff, it's what a mammal would turn urea into. Unless it's a hominid," Chaka said. "This matches what we know of Avalon biology." 
    "Not grendel, though?"
    "No, not grendel. Way less water, for one thing." Chaka muttered under his breath to Cassandra, and the images of the droppings expanded. "It's like dust. And . . . there's more than one kind here. Lots of animal life up there, nothing very large." 
    "Could be barking up the wrong tree."
    "Wrong damn forest. I can't tell anything until we match the droppings with the animal samples that we have currently, and keep going. We might be able to determine a phylum. I doubt if we can get closer than that." 
    "Hell of a riddle," Aaron said. He looked troubled. "I know what I want to do. I want to take a look on the west side of that mountain ridge. There's something over there. Volcanic? Organic? Don't know. But something on that mountain somewhere killed two people, and I want to find out what it was." 
    "What about Stu's funeral?" Justin asked.
    Aaron nodded. "Tomorrow morning. But before Robor arrives. Stu was Star Born, and we'll mourn him privately."

    All eighty-five of Shangri-La's Star Born were crowded into the main recreation hall. The eighty-sixth was buried out on the Scribeveldt, his grave marked by a pile of stone as tall as a man, and recorded to the centimeter in Cassandra's files.
    Katya walked somberly to the southeast corner of the rec room, and placed a foot-tall wooden plaque against the wall. With eight clean hammer-strokes she nailed it to the wall. On it were two lines of etched letters. The first read: STU ELLINGTON. Beneath it, GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN.
    There was another plaque on that wall. TOSHIRO TANAKA. REST WELL, SENSEI.
    She returned to the front of the hail, and stood beside Justin.
    Aaron Tragon stood before them. He wore a dark shirt and pants. His flaxen hair lay down around his shoulders. He gazed out at their assembled faces, and began to speak.
    "Most of those who have fulfilled this duty before me," he said, his voice swelling to fill the room, "have commended the institution of the eulogy. It is good, they have said, that solemn words should be spoken over our fallen friends. I disagree. Acts deserve acts, not words." 
    Someone behind Katya said, "Amen to that." 
    "But I can offer no act to equal that of Stuart Ellington. So it is with apologies to our fallen friend that I offer only words. We cannot understand Stu's sacrifice merely by considering the life he saved, or the life he lost in so saving. We must look to the sacrifices made to conquer Avalon, the world which we have inherited, with all of its terrors and treasures.
    "Twenty years ago there came from Earth a group of men and women who dreamed of Humanity's destiny among the stars. These courageous folk were willing to invest their lives in that dream. And all of us here descended from that dream." 
    There were quiet nods of agreement.
    "Most of you were born into the world through the bodies of your mothers, children of Love.
    "But others of us--like me, like Chaka and Trish, like Stu--were children of the dream itself, brought into the world by mind and force of will. Mind and Heart together have inherited this world . . . 
    "Stu enjoyed his garden, and his mathematics, and his flying. God, how he loved his flying. The true wealth of Avalon is found in the fact that pleasure motivates us--not the pain of lesser cultures. We don't have discipline on Avalon--we have hunger. Hunger to grow, to learn, to share. We are lovers of beauty, of wisdom, of knowledge. We differ from the states which preceded us in regarding the man who holds aloof from public life not as 'quiet' but as useless. Together in debate and action we have created every aspect of this world, and of that, we may be proud.
    "For we are at once the most adventurous and the most thoughtful human beings who have ever lived. But there is a price for the wealth, the opportunity, the beauty which fills our lives. Stu paid that price. More of us will pay it. We may pray to be spared his bitter hour, but remember his sacrifice and hope that if your moment of duty comes, you may discharge it as nobly.
    "It is because of this nobility that I do not mourn. For I know that we have been born into a world of manifold chances, and that he is to be accounted happy to whom either the best life, or the best death falls. The two are joined inexorably as one.
    "There is only a plaque to celebrate Stu here. His body belongs to the soil, to the cycle of life. This whole planet is the sepulcher of a brave man, and Stu's story is not merely graven on this plaque, but lives on in our hearts as we think of him, and strive to follow his example. As we try to lead a life, or die a death, one half so noble as his." 
    Aaron closed his eyes, and placed both hands, folded together, above his heart. "Good-bye, Stu," he said quietly.