Zeta-8
by Don Stockard


EXCERPT

 

Although Clay climbed the tree daily, he did not particularly enjoy it. It was neither the height — he was forty feet off the ground — nor the climb that bothered him, but rather the view. From where he sat, he could see the Waste — the stark, semiarid land where the Barbarians dwelt. To a youth such as Clay, it was a terrifying and, at the same time, fascinating sight.

All his life he had heard stories of the depredations of the Barbarians — how they attacked patrols of tanks that ventured beyond the Barrier, the wall that separated the Enclave and civilization from the Waste and chaos. There were even tales of the Barbarians breaching the Barrier itself and destroying farms. Clay ran his eyes along the Barrier, a reddish-brown slab ten feet high and four feet thick. It stretched as far as he could see in either direction. He wondered what kind of monsters the Barbarians must be to penetrate something as massive as the Barrier.

He glanced over his shoulder at the farmland — the pastures, fields, and scattered farmhouses — to remind himself all was indeed peaceful. Actually, Clay had never seen Barbarians nor any damage done by them. Still, the stories he had heard were graphic, and he had no reason to doubt them. He returned his attention to the monotone landscape beyond the Barrier. Compared to the farms of the Enclave, it was especially barren.

Clay scanned the plain to the south. It was about time for a patrol. From his vantage point high in the tree, he would be able to see the patrol of tanks as it made its way along the plain outside the Barrier. He had discovered the routine of the patrols by accident. Although Clay had no method of telling time, other than the sun and his internal clock, he could predict the appearance of the patrol within minutes. In the dull routine of watching the herd, it was the high point of his day.

It wasn’t long before Clay picked out the patrol on the horizon. Initially it was only a dark point, but it grew steadily in size until the four tanks were visible as individual dots, one behind the other. Soon they were directly across the Barrier from him. Each was an oblong dome eight feet tall and covered with dull-gray scales. Two feet from the top was a translucent band six inches wide and circling the entire dome. The band was inset slightly and protected by protruding ridges above and below. In addition, ten round, eight-inch ports were spaced evenly around the dome and a foot below the translucent band. Each tank moved on five pairs of thick, stumpy legs.

Clay felt a thrill as the giant, dome-shaped tanks glided smoothly along the plain between the Barrier and the range of nearby hills. This was the reason Clay climbed the tree. It was at this moment, when the tanks passed by as if on parade, that he felt a part of the power of the Enclave. It was his only opportunity. A simple herdboy such as Clay could never be a member of the complex administration that governed and defended the Enclave. In all probability, he would never even see the Center — the capital and only city of the Enclave — but for a brief moment, high in the tree, he was a part of the all-powerful system that controlled his life. Had Clay know what a salute was, he would have saluted.

He suddenly noticed a cloud of dust rising beyond the patrol, near the hills. He frowned and squinted at the cloud. It was definitely approaching the patrol, and it was closing rapidly. Soon Clay could make out a number of individual points. With a shock, he realized he was seeing, for the first time in his life, the Barbarians, and that they were attacking the patrol.

The four tanks halted and formed a tight semicircle, facing the attackers. As Clay watched, the tanks fired. This was the first time he had seen tanks fire. Even in the bright sunlight, he could see the orange-red fire belching from their ports as projectiles hurtled into the air. Four columns of dust and earth rose in the midst of the Barbarians. One of the points disappeared in a column of fire. Another fell to one side, rolled along the ground, and lay still. The others continued, approaching in a zigzag pattern. Another volley from the tanks caused no casualties.

The Barbarians were getting close enough so that Clay could distinguish more than dots. He had never seen anything like them. They were larger and moved faster than a man and had elongated bodies supported by numerous legs. Clay could not tell exactly how many, since the Barbarians were moving extremely fast. They also had two heads, one behind the other, on long necks. The rear head and neck separated from the main body when a projectile knocked one of them down. Although he could not make out many details, he could see that they were colored variously from brown to black to white to tan.

Suddenly, the Barbarians began to fire. Clay had no idea from where the projectiles issued in the grotesque anatomy of the Barbarians, but there was an explosion near the tanks. The tanks fired rapidly in reply as geysers of earth erupted around them. The Barbarians fanned out as they approached. Clay noticed that although the ranks of the Barbarians had thinned noticeably, only three of the tanks were still firing. But these were ejecting projectiles in an almost continuous stream.

More Barbarians fell, and their fire was diminishing. Suddenly, one of the remaining active tanks disappeared in a pillar of fire. The Barbarians converged on the remaining tanks, which spun adroitly from side to side, sometimes firing from more than one port. Finally, the remaining Barbarians wheeled and ran toward the hills from which they had come. The tanks continued to fire at the retreating survivors but with decreasing frequency.

Clay watched until the dust from the retreating Barbarians had settled. When he returned his attention to the scene of the battle, the surviving tanks had already departed, leaving the plain littered with the damaged tanks and the bodies of the Barbarians. The tanks continued the course on which the patrol had been before the attack.

Clay was shaking and he could feel sweat pouring down his face. He felt a mixture of horror, fear, sadness, and pride. The Barbarians were indeed a reality — something he had wondered from time to time — but now there was no question, for he had seen the hideous creatures with his own eyes. They had attacked tanks — war tanks! Clay could not imagine the ferocity necessary to attack war tanks and destroy them. That was the shocking thing. They had actually destroyed war tanks — the awesome weapons of the Enclave.

Clay stood up on the branch and almost fell. He sat down and tried to control his shaking. After several moments, he took a deep breath and stood up again. This time he felt steadier, and he carefully began his descent. When he dropped to the ground, he had regained some of his composure.

“Zate!” he shouted and ran across the pasture. He was barefoot, and his oversized, faded green coveralls flopped loosely on his small frame. “Zate!” He shouted at a tank grazing nearby. It resembled the war tanks Clay had been watching, except it was considerably smaller and had light red scales. The tank continued to graze, showing no sign of having heard the youth.

“Zate!” Clay skidded to a stop in front of the animal. “There’s been an attack! Barbarians attacked a patrol and two tanks —”

“I know. I know.” The tank folded its muzzle under its scales. “Why do you bother me with trivia?”

“But Zate, two tanks were killed!”

“They’re war tanks. They’re bred to get their brains blown out. That’s their problem.”

“How can you say that?”

The animal extended its muzzle and resumed grazing. “I had the good sense to be born a simple work tank. My ports are useless decorations. I can’t generate projectiles; therefore, I don’t have to play war with our neighbors. The war tanks are different. Those simple fools can generate projectiles, and look what it gets them — arrogance and an early death. They can have it.”

The herdboy sighed. “Zate, you’re nothing but a cynic. I can see there’s no use trying to talk to you. How did you know what had happened anyway? You may be able to see in any direction with your sensor band, but you couldn’t have seen over the barrier.”

“Relax. You’re all worked up. Climb on my back and take it easy for a while.”

“Okay. Okay.”

The tank retracted his legs, dropping his shell to the ground. Clay scrambled up the tank’s side and onto his broad back. The tank extended his legs and resumed grazing. Clay lay down, put his hands behind his head, and stared at the cloudless blue sky. Slowly, the mental turbulence created by the raid drained, and he slipped into a comatose state in which he was neither asleep nor awake. His mind emptied, and he was aware of little more than the regular rhythm of his breathing. He spent hours this way each day. It was a method of combating the boredom that was his lot. Clay awakened suddenly as he struck the ground. He sat up quickly, trying to orient himself.

“Time to go home, dream boy.”

Clay glanced at the tank towering over him. “You could have been a bit gentler.”

The tank bobbed up and down in the equivalent of a chuckle. “It worked.”

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