Giants in the Dust

by Chad Oliver

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Hard Science Fiction

Synopsis

Into a world where monsters ruled... To make it his own, he had only the power in his limbs and his desire to wrest this primeval land from the beasts. He was Varnum, last vestige of strength in the jaded race of men. Adrift in a land untouched by technology, he found himself with the chance for which all men dream - to shape history!

Release date: May 29, 2014

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 192

Sample

Varnum should have been in a hurry and he should have been excited.

He had a Summons.

He took his own sweet time. He was, in fact, walking—which took some doing. He was not thrilled. It took a lot to thrill Varnum. He had gotten a few complaints on that very point in recent years.

He was quite calm, almost abnormally so. He was also being very careful. He had his antennae out. He had not lasted this long by being asleep at the switch. He knew why they wanted him and he knew how their minds worked.

They would not be taking chances.

Neither would he.

Haste made waste. Varnum waste.

Varnum had a first name: Charles. He didn’t much like the name, although he recognized a certain kinship with an earlier Charles Varnum. He too had been a survivor, long ago on the stream the Indians called the Greasy Grass. Varnum had a number, of course. He had nothing against the number itself; it was just a string of digits. It was the idea of having a number that he detested. He didn’t know how many Varnums there were on the planet, except that there were certainly too many. He was massively uninterested. Let the computers worry about sorting them out; that was what computers were for. He knew who he was. He had never confused himself with anyone else. That was good enough for Varnum.

He had the Summons. It had reached him. That meant that all the departmental deities were in their appointed slots, eyeballing the doings of lesser mortals. All was therefore right with the world.

Sure.

In a pig’s eye. (Varnum knew what a pig was. He read books, actual books. He also knew something about ancient slang. He was a very eccentric man.)

If he had not been an unusual man, the Summons would not have come to him.

If he had not been an unusual man, he would not make it to his destination.

Varnum was ready.

He was expecting trouble.

It came.

It was not very original, but it could get the job done.

Definitely.

Finally.

Varnum was in a city. It took a considerable effort to be anywhere else. For all practical purposes, the planet was a series of cities more or less separated by chemical-saturated food-producing areas. There were a few exceptions, notably portions of the Antarctic and some chunks of the old Sahara, but that was about it.

He was in the city, which meant that the place was as urban as it could get. That was very urban indeed. There were few streets and fewer walkways. Apart from the manicured monstrosities of the so-called parks, a man was not supposed to move around on his own two legs. He was tubed or carried or shunted. Besides, there was nowhere to go. One part of the city was much like any other part. Things came to you; you did not go to them.

There was no rain, no sun, no wind.

There were no smells.

It was one hell of a peculiar place to find a primate that had started his career under warm tropical skies.

How do you kill a man in the city? Let me count the ways—

No, let’s stick to the easiest way.

If you catch him walking, you walk too. You just get in close and let him have it. Nothing fancy that will activate a defense screen. A knife will do fine.

There were two of them. Varnum saw them coming. That was easy enough; the walkway was not crowded.

He was not sure what they were up to, of course. But he had his eye on them. He did not energize his screen. A screen immobilized you. You couldn’t afford to switch it on whenever you spotted something suspicious. You might live a long time but you would never get anywhere.

In any event, Varnum was not worried. There were only two of them.

They attacked, flawlessly. They gave no signals. They simply split, one going to each side, and came in for the kill.

Varnum reacted.

In such a situation, taken by surprise, a man normally stops in his tracks or retreats. Varnum was not taken by surprise. He sprinted straight ahead, stopped, and swung around on a pivot. He shucked his cumbersome robe, yanked his compressed sword from his belt, and squeezed the handle to extend the blade.

He attacked.

There was nothing to it. He had the range on them, his sword against their knives. The walkway was narrow. He simply kept his blade moving in slashing arcs and advanced. He got the right arm of the man on his left, cutting it to the bone. There was quite a satisfactory scream and a spurt of blood. The other man turned and ran.

Varnum wasted no time on the man he had wounded. He was out of the fight. Varnum turned his back on him, walked away, and retrieved his robe. He was breathing hard, but that was all.

“Stupid bastards,” he said. The competition wasn’t much to flash home about these days.

The few pedestrians ignored the whole thing. Walkway fights were not all that common; probably some of them had never seen one before. Still, it was none of their business. They stayed out of it. They looked through Varnum as though he were a sheet of plastic.

“Thanks, gang,” Varnum said. He felt no real resentment. That was the way it was.

He went on to answer the Summons, his opinion of the august authorities neither higher nor lower than it had been before.

Varnum entered the chamber and paused.

He stood there quietly, sizing up the place, aware that he was being scrutinized in return.

A strange-looking man, Varnum. In an age of harmony and perfectly proportioned people, he was a bit of a freak. His face was all slabs and angles. His skin was seamed and leathery. His dark eyes were narrow and had a perpetual squint. His hands were square and rough with stubby fingers. He was not tall for his time, exactly six feet, and he did not have an ideal build. His strong shoulders were rounded, his hips were thick. A model of fluidity and grace he wasn’t.

If there was one word to describe Varnum, it was solid.

He looked as though he had taken root.

Varnum had been in the chamber before, but it had been a few years. It hadn’t changed much, and neither had its occupants. Varnum looked them over. He was neither awed nor fantastically impressed, but he did not make the mistake of underestimating them. There was a lot of ability in that room.

“I have answered the Summons,” he said. That was just protocol, a more or less standard opening.

“The Council is grateful for your good citizenship.” That was the ritual response.

Varnum said nothing more. He knew that the Council had turned the would-be assassins loose on him. He knew why they had done it—a direct if clumsy effort to discover whether or not he could still cope with a dangerous situation. If he knew it, the Council certainly knew it. Varnum was not inclined to bluster. The next move was up to them.

“Well, Varnum.” The speaker was male. He was the kind who was usually referred to as distinguished. He was saddled with the appropriate symbols: silvery hair, impeccable grooming, an easy manner of quiet authority. He had no title apart from that of Council member, but he ran the show. His name was Ira Luden and he had a very low number. He was no dope.

Varnum allowed the silence to lengthen.

“Would you like to be seated?” Ira Luden asked. He was the very essence of cordiality.

“Will this be a long session?”

“It will take some time, I think.”

There was just one unoccupied chair. Varnum took it, facing the Council.

“There is something that we would like to explore with you,” Ira Luden said.

“Explore away. I’m at your service.”

Ira Luden chuckled. He was one of the few people Varnum had ever met who actually chuckled. “I think you misconstrue our system of government. We are at your service.”

Several Council members nodded gravely. Clearly, they felt that Luden had made a Very Important Point.

“Have it your way. You are at my service. Do you wish me to issue some instructions?”

Ira Luden chuckled again. He had the complete assurance of total power. He was not going to be ruffled. He could afford to be magnanimous.

He needs me, Varnum thought. Why?

“Come now,” Ira Luden said. “We are all equals here. Let us proceed in harmony.”

“I am positively bloated with love and harmony,” Varnum assured him. “Let us, as you say, proceed.”

“Yes. Right. We must not waste a citizen’s time. You are a direct man, I know. I will come straight to the point.”

Varnum waited. He was fairly good at that.

“Varnum,” Ira Luden asked, giving him the frank and honest look, “are you happy?”

Varnum blinked. He hadn’t expected that one. He mulled it over a few seconds. “Is anyone?” he said.

There was a murmur from the Council members. Lively bunch. Varnum thought. All they do is mutter and nod.

“I don’t know,” Ira Luden said. It must have been a difficult admission for him to make; Ira Luden was supposed to know everything. The man was not just playing a role now. He seemed genuinely perplexed.

Varnum was suitably impressed. “That was a serious question, then?”

“And a serious answer on my part.”

Varnum hunched down and crossed his legs. “You have squads of scientific experts at your disposal. You have computer banks and finely honed measurement techniques. You have survey systems that are accurate to a ridiculous number of decimal places. And you don’t know whether anyone is happy or not?”

Ira Luden frowned. “Friend, there are various ways that one can proceed. You can ask the experts, but experts always disagree—that is how they demonstrate their expertise. You can ask the people, but they often don’t know. Leaving aside the obvious semantic quibbles, happiness is a relative thing. What have they got to measure their feelings against? You can go by your own gut reactions, but divination from entrails is a notoriously unreliable process. You can calculate creativity and growth, but you have to begin with subjective standards. Am I boring you?”

“No. It’s an interesting question. I’ve often wondered myself.”

“What do you think? I know you’ve thought about it, Varnum. We know quite a lot about you.”

“And you want my opinion?”

“That question is not worthy of you. We have asked you to come here. I have asked the question. We are not playing games.”

Varnum chewed it over awhile. He felt decidedly out of his element.

So what the hell. He took the plunge. “I’ll put it on a personal basis; that’s all I’ve got to offer. I’ll level with you, but I want it understood that I am not requesting conditioning. I want that on the record. I expressly refuse conditioning.”

“Certainly, certainly. You are not here for treatment. We will not violate your rights.”

“Okay. I believe you, which is probably my first large mistake of recent vintage. This is what I think. I am not making a formal complaint against the Council—”

“Oh, forget all that. Please. A personal favor.”

This from a man who made a halfhearted effort to have me killed not long ago. But he had his reasons. Didn’t he?

“So I think this. Of course, nobody sits around in a state of constant moronic euphoria; human beings aren’t made that way. I take it that is not what you mean. I consider that I am rather happier than most, but I would not characterize me as a happy man. The logical rejoinder to that is, so what? Who cares? More to the point, maybe, is the fact that I don’t know anyone who seems truly happy. Perhaps I just know the wrong people—or maybe I just have that effect on them. But if it’s anything except a myth, happiness is a positive quality. It isn’t just the absence of pain or hunger or misery. And that’s what we’ve got—a long string of nothings. Nobody gives much of a damn about anything one way or the other. We’re a pack of beautifully adjusted zombies. How’s that for a subversive editorial?”

Ira Luden intertwined his long, graceful fingers. It was a practiced gesture; he was the kind of man who was often told that he had nice hands. His face showed nothing at all. That, too, was practiced.

“Not bad,” Ira Luden said. “In fact, I’m inclined to agree with you.”

Varnum was surprised, and showed it. “You think we’re all miserable—and you’re calling the shots? Doesn’t that tarnish the old image a trifle?”

“I didn’t say miserable.” Ira Luden’s tone was unflustered. “I would say not-happy. That’s as close as I can come to it. It’s a passive thing, an absence of joy. I am aware that I am not being frightfully original. Still, there it is.”

“So?”

They studied each other. One man was poised and elegant, the other rough and graceless. There was something between them, an obscure point of contact. The rest of the Council was ignored.

“My image is not all that important—not here. There is no need to play dumb, Varnum. If I thought you were stupid, I would not be talking to you. You are perfectly well aware that there are limits to what a government can do—any government. I have no magic wand. What I do have—what we all have—is a problem. I want. . .