These Savage Futurians

by Philip E. High

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

Don't think new thoughts, don't improve anything, don't wander over the next hill: these were the commandments for the men and women of the experimental village - one of those careful nurtured settlements established after the collapse of world civilization. The rules were made by the benevolent Masters of the Island - and they had to be obeyed. To disobey was to be destroyed. But Robert Ventnor, villager with a dangerously high quotient of curiosity, was the exception. He fled - and evaded liquidation. But he fled right into the hands of THESE SAVAGE FUTURIANS and thereby supplied the key that could blast apart civilization's second chance and destroy the world once and for all.

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 131

Sample

HE STOOD on a high white cliff looking out across the sea. Far out, clumps of weed and wreckage drifted slowly down the channel looking, in the blue-gray water like the backs of sleeping dolphins.

Closer to shore an old plastic paddle-boat butted stubbornly against the current, making such slow progress it appeared almost stationary.

He had once seen the inside of a paddle-boat. He could imagine the drive-men crouched over the bars, faces dewed with sweat and pedaling desperately to stop the vessel losing way.

“What are you doing here?”

He stiffened then turned slowly. “Please?”

“You heard me—what are you doing here?”

“I was looking at the sea.”

“And why are you not at work?”

“It is my free day.” He fumbled in his pocket for the pass and handed it over.

He was a tall young man with a thin tanned face, dark untidy hair and intelligent blue eyes. His body appeared thin but was strong and lithely muscled.

The questioner studied him briefly and examined the pass. A certain slowness of movement and the slightly halting speech had already been noted.

The pass was in order and was handed back.

“Identity disc.” The questioner waited while the other fumbled the disc from his clothing and finally extended it from the chain which encircled his neck.

The identity disc bore no writing or symbols. It was a circle of metal into which had been punched a large number of holes. The questioner ran blunt brown fingers across its surface. The holes, varying in size and arrangement, gave a complete picture of the disc’s owner—ROBERT VENTNOR. AGE 27. AGRICULTURAL LABORER. UNMARRIED. PSYCHIATRIC CLASSIFICATION 225/9/446. At the side of the disc three separate perforations gave a psycho-genetic warning—P/D/G.

Ventnor’s father had been destroyed for gadgeteering and it was apparent that this tendency had been carried forward to the next generation. Worse, although latent, the characteristic was predominant and increasing. The questioner had already decided that something must be done about it.

“Where are you going?”

“To Gret.”

“That is not your village.”

“True, but there is a girl—”

“It is unwise to pursue the women of other villages.”

“There is no law against it, Padre.”

“And no law to protect you if the males of that village take offence at your intrusion.” The Padre turned abruptly and walked away. A squat man, wearing the traditional black of his kind, with a curious circle of unbroken white about his throat, he wore also a round hat with an up-curled brim which never seemed to leave his head.

Ventnor watched him go with a feeling of relief. He had heard that Padres, long ago, had been men of honor, healers and dispensers of mystery. Today, however, they were watchdogs, spies and the administrators of summary justice.

He turned slowly in case the Padre was still watching and began to trudge in the direction of Gret. He was, in truth, neither slow nor halting of speech but he had carefully cultivated these mannerisms since the age of eighteen.

His father had been voluble, swift of movement, eager and inquisitive. Characteristics which, in the long run, had killed him or, at least, helped.

Ventnor senior had been clever with his hands and instead of confining himself to simple carpentry had improvised and created. Nothing startling, an original door-catch, a planting implement, a swing-hinge—enough to set him apart as a gadgeteer, enough for them to mark him.

Once marked there had been nothing to do but wait; there was no point in running. No one saw the marker come and no one saw it go but there had been a flash—

Ventnor shuddered slightly, he still remembered it vividly. His father drinking from a plastic cup and suddenly—suddenly nothing. A flash, the cup spinning in a little circle on the hard floor and a few flakes of white ash drifting down from nowhere.

Of deliberation Ventnor junior had made himself slow of movement and halting of speech. He rejected his apprenticeship and volunteered for cultivation. At the time it had seemed far safer.

He had often regretted it, but he had carefully kept to himself the inner urges of creation—the desire to improvise, improve or construct from his own original fund of ideas.

They knew, of course, Robert Ventnor was a gadgeteer; that was why they had marked his disc P/D—Potential Danger.

Ventnor looked out across the sea again. Somewhere out there was the Island—the Island of the Masters.

He was wrong; the Island was in the Atlantic, but no one had told him that. As far as he knew it was beyond the horizon and often on a clear day he had felt a frightened awe when the coast of France became visible.

He came to a line of whitened stones marking the boundaries of his village and quickened his pace. It was a long walk to Gret with continuous hills and then a long winding path down to the sea.

When he reached it the scene was familiar, men tilling the small cultivation patches, garments fluttering in a brisk wind from the sea. Women were filling plastic baskets with bright green newly cut protages and swaying away with them balanced on their heads.

As he approached the men paused in their work and stared. They stared with an open-mouthed and uncomprehending intensity as if he had three arms or two heads and he felt a twinge of alarm. Previously they had only glanced and turned away, now their eyes were fixed on him unblinkingly.

He felt himself coloring and knew that his step was faltering slightly. This was a warning—a traditional warning—and, clearly they had been expecting him.

Mentally he hesitated. Now was the time to go back, now, if he returned, the men would stop staring and continue with their work. If he did not turn back, however, a warning would be shouted down to the village below and, when he arrived, men of his own age would be there to greet him—violently.

His common sense told him to go back and a stubborn pride told him to go on. After all Elseth had promised, on his last rest, on his last visit, she had promised.

He had looked down at her, gripping her shoulder. “You will be my woman? You will come and house with me?”

“Your woman, Robert Ventnor? Yes—yes, I will be your woman—if you are strong enough to take me.”

He had known what she meant. Any other male who might desire her would try and stop him. At the time, inflamed by her promise, he had dismissed the problem as trivial, now—now he was not so sure.

He was tall, strong, reasonably swift of movement, but it might not be just one suitor, it might be several.

On the other hand, if he turned back, the word would quickly be passed on. They would call him ‘white-stomach’ and the women, the children, and the young girls would mock him openly when he returned.

Robert Ventnor stuck out his chin, lengthened his step and followed the long winding path to the village of Gret.

He thought, dully, that it would not be a good place to escape from. It would be up-hill and often between gullies in the chalk. If he lost it would be a hard, bitter and wearing retreat—if he made it.

When he reached the village she was leaning against one of the huts, smiling. She wore a shiny black plastic skirt and a sleeveless orange blouse. Copper bangles adorned her wrists and ankles and her toes curled in the dust of the street.

When she saw him she tossed her head challengingly and put her hands on her hips. There was no affection in her eyes but they were bright with anticipation.

“You have come, Robert, boy.”

“I have come to take you as my woman.”

“If you are strong enough.” She laughed shrilly. “Many suitors desire me here.”

It was then that Corby came round the corner of the hut. Ventnor had met Corby once at an inter-village festival and had never liked him.

Corby had little black eyes and a ginger moustache, the ends of which he had waxed so that they stood up at tight angles to the corners of his mouth. It made him look like a wild boar. Corby had squat shoulders and short but bulgy freckled arms.

He smiled, looking more like a boar than ever. “What you want here, Del, boy—what you want here?”

When he saw that no answer was forthcoming, he charged.

Ventnor hit him full in the mouth as he came in and Corby staggered, little eyes glazing. Ventnor hit him again and this time Corby dropped to his knees and began to fall forward. At the last moment he put out his hands and saved himself. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth and made small scarlet spots in the dust.

Corby shook his head twice, inhaled deeply and staggered upright, but his hands were limp at his sides and, clearly, he was only half conscious.

Ventnor knew nothing of rules; the word ‘sportsmanship’ had not been included in his vocabulary so he hit again with all his force. This time Corby went right down and stayed there, breathing stertorously and showing the whites of his eyes.

It was then that several young men appeared from various parts of the village and began to run towards him shouting: “Killer! Rapist! Robber!” Some of them carried heavy sticks or throwing clubs.

Ventnor looked wildly about him, saw his cause was hopeless and turned to run.

Someone threw a stone, grazing his leg and then his reflexes took over and he was running out of the village at full speed.

There were shouts behind him and the sound of pursuit but he did not look back. A stone, probably from a sling, hissed past his head. A throwing club, making a whirring sound, passed above him, struck a bank of earth and bounced high into the air.

He looked upwards, seeking, if possible, a quicker way to high ground and, on a hillock far to his right, he saw a figure. Only later did the significance of what he had seen sink into his mind. Stones were flying about him and his lungs were laboring but there was no mistake—the Padre!

The Padre stood on a hillock, arms folded, feet slightly apart, staring downwards as if in triumph.

A club struck Ventnor’s shoulder painfully and then he was round a bend in the path which gave him temporary cover, but he knew that the hunt was far from ended. There were shouts behind him, jeering, hoots of encouragement and, from the cultivation patches, the mocking laughter of the women. God, it must be a thousand paces to the top—he’d never do it!

Somehow, however, his feet still pounded on the rough soil. His vision was blurred and tinged with scarlet and he felt as if there were a knife wound in his side, but he did not falter. It was as if his pain-wracked body labored upwards on its own; as if his own fears and terrors drove it onwards and it was determined not to succumb. Yet it shouted for respite, the lungs burned and throbbed, blood pounded noisily in his head and his legs felt grossly heavy yet curiously numb.

Then, somehow, as if in a dream, he reached the flat rolling land above the village, turned onto the path for Del and staggered to an uncertain stop.

About a thousand paces down the path to Del another group of men stood ready to head him off. All of them were armed and two carried bows.

Ventnor, wheezing for breath, did the only thing possible. He turned and ran in the opposite direction.

There was no path, only the uneven ground and a long slope undulating slowly upwards. He knew why there was no path—he was heading towards forbidden territory and, once he reached the boundary line, he would be in it. He admitted to himself that he was frightened but he was more frightened of the immediate danger.

The first pursuit party which had, no doubt, been joined by Corby, thirsting for vengeance, had reached level ground. A quick glance behind him showed that the second party had also taken up the chase.

Then suddenly there was a second line of stones, this time painted red, and he hurled himself across them. He ran until he was safely out of arrow range then let himself collapse, literally sobbing with relief and exhaustion.

He lay, it seemed, a long time, his heart beating so violently it seemed to thud against his ribs. His lungs ached, his clothing was soaked and sweat trickled down his body in streams. Finally he rolled over and sat upright.

“Del boy!” Corby’s voice shouting from a distance but was clearly audible. “Del boy, you think you got away?” The voice paused then went on. “You think you safe now?” A shout of laughter from the others. “You safe all right, Del boy, yes, you safe there but try and get back, jest try.”

Another shout of laughter from the others then Corby’s voice again. “Maybe you wait for darkness, eh? Won’t be no darkness for you, boy, not for you. We light fires on boundary, walk up and down with torches. Try getting back, eh? Just try.”

Laughter, a series of jeering and obscene threats then Corby’s voice again. “Only one thing to do, Del friend, you come to us and maybe we beat you up only a little or you can just keep going. Yes, you can do that, you can keep going. . . .