Transmaniacon by John Shirley

grew—eliminate the core, and the structure collapses. So, as clandestinely as possible, they rounded up the Indians from cities and ranches and reservations and took them up in the mountains and gassed them dead. But you can’t kill that many people and hide it long. It got out. It sparked off the secession of California, which was the beginning of the civil war and the beginning of the end for the good ol’ US—”
    â€œStop talking for a while. Jeezus. My head hurts. Christ, my head hurts when I look at anything Ugh. Throbbing.” She sagged into the seat beside him, massaging her temples.
    â€œThese aren’t Indians. What few Indians survived went to hide in the Rockies and the deserts, and I hear they’ve got a sizeable army growing out there. Hard to say, they’re incredibly elusive these days. They may give us a fight for this continent yet. These––” he gestured at the savages by the lake–– “are regressed Caucasians.”
    â€œYeah, yeah, very interesting. Now shut up.”
    He took the fly-car down.
    He set down on a gravelly slope thirty feet from the nearest hut and a stride from the water’s edge. They had only one weapon between them, Ranger’s .45 automatic, and only eight cartridges left. Gloria stayed behind to guard the fly-car while Ben stepped into the generous sunshine to parley.
    There was a ragged semicircle of twelve lean-tos, several smoking heaps of embers set about with promisingly bubbling pots. He smelled cooked meat. His mentor, Old Thorn, had referred to the scent of cooking meat as “the Devil’s perfume.” So it seemed now.
    There were twenty-five men and women gathered in a nervous knot at the far end of the village. A primitive culture. Apparently, tasks were assigned according to gender, for the women carried babies, the men, weapons. They were nut-brown people, but many of them had long blonde or red hair; they wore leather loincloths, and sandals. Ben shivered. A tough folk; he was warmly dressed, and still shivered in the sharp early-morning mountain winds.
    As he started forward the tribe edged backwards. Two of them fell to a heated debate, trying to decide whether to run or to fight.
    They think the fly-car is a real fly, Ben decided.
    He stopped short and called out, waving in the friendliest way he could manage. He smiled at the men with the spears.
    They started forward, but the women remained behind. The advancing men exhibited no friendliness.
    â€œSo, it’s Rackey!” came a voice from the nearest lean-to. Ben spun around and crouched, whipping out the pistol. He was faced with a short, stocky, freckled man with a squirrely face. His cheeks were puffy, his teeth prominent, and his brown eyes shone at Ben from under his matted chestnut hair. His arms were dyed blue and there was a red $ on his forehead, between his eyes. His feet were stubby blocks caked in mud. He wore a shiny pair of cut-off dungarees and a necklace made of teeth.
    â€œChancey!” Ben exclaimed. “Chancey Chapin!” Ben laughed and put the gun away. “Your ‘suit’ is somewhat different from the last time we met, Chancey. You wore one of lights and shoes like ivory.”
    Chancey grinned, and Ben noticed that most of the little man’s teeth had recently deserted his mouth. “I like this outfit better. These clothes are cheaper to keep up, Ben old boy.” His smile vanished more suddenly than it had come. “What brought you here, Rackey?”
    â€œThe basic human motivation. Food. We’ve run out. We need a chance to, refresh ourselves. We’ve got some tools we could trade—”
    â€œNo, we’ll feed you for free. I don’t want them relying on metal things. They might decide they need me less. I’m the only one here with any sophistication beyond wood-lore. I got a good thing goin’ here. First I came to hide out—my overland broke down not