and started feeding him CO².
Red and gray warred in his vision. He slowed only because he had to. He walked, blind and gasping, because he knew someone was behind him who might not run as fast, but who'd be there, nonetheless.
The river roared beside him, swollen with the falling rain. When the man chasing him got the notion he couldn't find him in the thicket and went back to report that there was a fool out running in the woods, they'd send out more people with more cylinders to look for him in a systematic way.
Old
River
's rising might cut them off, cover his tracks, keep him safe.
Old
River
he strong, Melody would say,
Old
River
he drink all, all down he catch.
Old
River
was both friend and enemy, god and devil to the hisa, stronger than human courts or decrees or all the forces the Base could bring to bear. It might kill him, but he didn't care. He knew he was stupid for running, and right now, he didn't care. Back there at the Base, in the next few minutes, the word would get around. Where's Fletch? Where's Fletch, the buzz would start. And then they'd all start saying it.
And he didn't want to be there to hear it. Yes, they'd have the people out searching. But slower than they'd be out searching, under other circumstances.
Their
masks were missing cylinders. They'd have to fill out all that paperwork, do all those reports. It gave him a strange, light-headed satisfaction. Die? They wouldn't. Be inconvenienced? A lot. He felt a light-headedness not from shortness of air, but from a single moment of victory he knew he'd pay for.
He'd worked all his life to get here, and in the end, it wasn't lawyers that took him away, it was himself, because he'd blown it—and chosen to blow it—at least he'd chosen it. Stealing those cylinders and running, that wasn't going to be a minor rules infraction. But it was a
choice
, damn them all. It was
his
choice. When things fell apart, he at least had that to say.
Lightning flashed and thunder cracked right above his head, above the tops of the trees. His heart jumped and his knees wobbled with the adrenaline rush it gave him. A planet's surface where electricity flew around like a loose power line, that was a dangerous thing: water coursed beside the path, not tame
Old
River
any longer, but a rough-surfaced flood,
Old
River
in one of his killing moods.
Old
River
he mad, the downers would say.
Old
River
he catch you foot, drag you down. Melody had warned him of the treachery of soft banks among the very first things she'd ever warned him when he came to the planet.
Old
River
was the devil who always lurked to take the unwary, and Great Sun was the god—if downers had a religion. Which human experts argued about in stupid technicalities.
You couldn't ask the downers that. They said if you asked you'd give them ideas and it might pervert the whole course of downer development, turning it toward something human.
So what were the domes, fools? Puffer-balls? Nature falling from the sky? They didn't know about
Old
River
. They recorded downer beliefs about
Old
River
, they knew the words, but
Old
River
wouldn't cover for them, wouldn't protect them, wouldn't take care of them, father and devil both.
He'd told Bianca—he'd told Bianca—his thoughts were tumbling wild as the water near his foot—to say that they were late because he'd gone back to see about the saw. Wasn't that what they'd agreed to say? That was what she'd have said, if they went to her. As they would. He'd thought through so many variations on the lie he'd confused himself.
But that was it, wasn't it? She was supposed to say that, if they questioned her about being late. So he
couldn't
use the saw excuse.
He could say, well, he wasn't sure where he'd put the saw, and he remembered later putting it somewhere else and he wanted to find it—
The hell, after that interview with Nunn? after being told to pack up?
He could still make a case for himself, he could say he'd just been that shaken and
Red and gray warred in his vision. He slowed only because he had to. He walked, blind and gasping, because he knew someone was behind him who might not run as fast, but who'd be there, nonetheless.
The river roared beside him, swollen with the falling rain. When the man chasing him got the notion he couldn't find him in the thicket and went back to report that there was a fool out running in the woods, they'd send out more people with more cylinders to look for him in a systematic way.
Old
River
's rising might cut them off, cover his tracks, keep him safe.
Old
River
he strong, Melody would say,
Old
River
he drink all, all down he catch.
Old
River
was both friend and enemy, god and devil to the hisa, stronger than human courts or decrees or all the forces the Base could bring to bear. It might kill him, but he didn't care. He knew he was stupid for running, and right now, he didn't care. Back there at the Base, in the next few minutes, the word would get around. Where's Fletch? Where's Fletch, the buzz would start. And then they'd all start saying it.
And he didn't want to be there to hear it. Yes, they'd have the people out searching. But slower than they'd be out searching, under other circumstances.
Their
masks were missing cylinders. They'd have to fill out all that paperwork, do all those reports. It gave him a strange, light-headed satisfaction. Die? They wouldn't. Be inconvenienced? A lot. He felt a light-headedness not from shortness of air, but from a single moment of victory he knew he'd pay for.
He'd worked all his life to get here, and in the end, it wasn't lawyers that took him away, it was himself, because he'd blown it—and chosen to blow it—at least he'd chosen it. Stealing those cylinders and running, that wasn't going to be a minor rules infraction. But it was a
choice
, damn them all. It was
his
choice. When things fell apart, he at least had that to say.
Lightning flashed and thunder cracked right above his head, above the tops of the trees. His heart jumped and his knees wobbled with the adrenaline rush it gave him. A planet's surface where electricity flew around like a loose power line, that was a dangerous thing: water coursed beside the path, not tame
Old
River
any longer, but a rough-surfaced flood,
Old
River
in one of his killing moods.
Old
River
he mad, the downers would say.
Old
River
he catch you foot, drag you down. Melody had warned him of the treachery of soft banks among the very first things she'd ever warned him when he came to the planet.
Old
River
was the devil who always lurked to take the unwary, and Great Sun was the god—if downers had a religion. Which human experts argued about in stupid technicalities.
You couldn't ask the downers that. They said if you asked you'd give them ideas and it might pervert the whole course of downer development, turning it toward something human.
So what were the domes, fools? Puffer-balls? Nature falling from the sky? They didn't know about
Old
River
. They recorded downer beliefs about
Old
River
, they knew the words, but
Old
River
wouldn't cover for them, wouldn't protect them, wouldn't take care of them, father and devil both.
He'd told Bianca—he'd told Bianca—his thoughts were tumbling wild as the water near his foot—to say that they were late because he'd gone back to see about the saw. Wasn't that what they'd agreed to say? That was what she'd have said, if they went to her. As they would. He'd thought through so many variations on the lie he'd confused himself.
But that was it, wasn't it? She was supposed to say that, if they questioned her about being late. So he
couldn't
use the saw excuse.
He could say, well, he wasn't sure where he'd put the saw, and he remembered later putting it somewhere else and he wanted to find it—
The hell, after that interview with Nunn? after being told to pack up?
He could still make a case for himself, he could say he'd just been that shaken and
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