My first Western story. Shucks it was fun to write! Thunderboy by Rick Heiman Thunderboy and I had been out all morning, walking and jogging along the old use trail near the rim of the river canyon. We came down the narrow switchback path to the bottom. Just where the path levels out, a few yards away from the river that flowed thin now, in the mid-August dryness, a small, unnamed spring-fed creek tumbles in a thin, sparkling strand from half-way down the canyon wall, bouncing over granite boulders and a few incongruous ferns before splashing over the last outcrops and finally, mixing in with the slightly cloudier waters of the middle fork. It was one of my favorite places in the whole precinct, and I liked to think it was one of Thunderboy’s too. The smell of mountain mint, which grew in abundance near the water, always pricked his ears up and got him snorting softly. I wouldn’t let him eat it, though. Never did know if it would colic him up or not. I guided Thunderboy toward a thick stand of new growth Ponderosa pines that surrounded the remnants- just a rock foundation really- of an old tumbledown cabin a few dozen yards ahead. Just there, the canyon opened up slightly to yield a third of an acre of reasonably level land. No doubt the rotting boards and other organic detritus of humanity supplied the additional nourishment the trees needed there in that rather incongruous location. I figured to head into the shade between the trees, let my sweat dry and give ‘Boy a chance to cool his pommel and forehead solar micro-array. He wasn’t running that hot yet, but the afternoon was supposed to be a scorcher and I wanted him to store as much juice as he could before I put his sunbonnet on. My horse- a metahippus though he was infinitely more than an AO to me- sensed them first, snorting and straining at the neuro-reins that linked my lead gloves to the senso-palate inside his large, authentically horse-sized mouth. I don’t know how he was able to tell so quickly when hunters were approaching; the sophistication of the neurosensory array lining his otherwise normal equine ears was beyond my limited tech savvy. Not to mention, with the Singularity Web, the Sweb, inoperable for the past twenty odd years- since before I was born- I had no idea how those eagle-sized bugs could track us. All I knew was that if they got us in the open, we were both toast. I didn’t hesitate after I looked up and saw the three small specks well above the canyon rim starting the headlong, zig-zag dive that was their trademark attack pattern. Thunderboy didn’t need any urging- one smooch and he was off like a shot. A 30 yard fast lope brought us into the stand of pines. It was real close, with our pursuers rocketing down to a hovering position just above the treetops in less than 15 seconds. I knew that the hunters couldn’t see us- if that was the right term for it- when we had enough evergreen branches above us. It was something in the pine sap, apparently, or at least that was the most common explanation. I wondered if maybe it was the cones. But now I could hear all three of them buzzing back and forth and even though I knew they had no emotion and no intelligence on their own, they sounded angry. Emotion or not, dead Sweb or not, they would sting me to death if they could. They would ignore Thunderboy, of course, but left alone without me to monitor his temperature he would probably fry himself in a day or two since he wouldn’t leave my side if I was down. I knew that the hunter bugs would have to return to their nest, or hive, or wherever the heck they “lived,” after a few hours in the open, especially on a sunny day like this one. What I didn’t know was how long these particular bugs had been out foraging. They were capable of prolonging their day by taking refuge in a high shady spot, like an underhang below a canyon top, and I could tell that these were in no hurry to leave just yet. It was unnerving, listening to them chitter and whine just a couple of dozen yards above us. I decided that it might be a while, so I dismounted and untacked Thunderboy, exchanging the sensoreins for a quiet-halter. I got a coil of rope off of him and highlined him between two trees but kept his saddle on. I rummaged in the saddlebags for a couple of carrots and gave them to him; his brown eyes flickered and he nickered his approval before munching them down. I I took off the blanket I always carried, folded it up like a pillow, and sat down with my back against a tree. “Buzz, buzz.” The constant background noise of the hunter bugs, coupled with the warmth that was just short of uncomfortable in the shade of the trees, was actually starting to lull me to sleep. I thought about getting Thunderboy’s feed bag out and giving him some grain, but then decided he would be okay for an hour or so and maybe by then the bugs would be gone and I could take him out and let him graze for a bit. Finally, I did doze off. I don’t know how long I checked out; it couldn’t have been too long because the light that was filtering down through the branches was still coming from high overhead. But the quality of the noise the hunters were making had changed suddenly. It was louder now, even more angry-sounding. In the mild fog that lingers after waking up suddenly from a mid-day nap in summertime, it seemed to my ears that two of them were moving off, toward the west, downriver, although one was clearly still overhead. A moment later I heard the first sharp crack of a rifle shot, followed in a second or two by four more shots in quick succession. I could hear the pine branches above us giving way to something falling and then a hunter bug fell just four feet in front of me. I jumped up and pulled my .38 Bisley Colt, cocking the hammer back in one fluid motion I had practiced and perfected under Billy’s careful supervision in the clearing behind our cabin. I took a two hand aim and was just about to fire when I noticed the bug wasn’t moving. It no longer had a “head,” either, just a bundle of exposed circuitry visible on the near end of the trunk where the head had formerly resided. I edged closer, gun still cocked, but relaxing a little. I got up the nerve to reach out and poke it with the toe of my boot. Nothing. It was dead as a doornail and whoever had fired out there had taken its head clean off. I was impressed and more than a little scared at the thought of meeting the person on the other end of that gun. I stared down at the dead hunter bug. I had never seen one so close up before; I had fired at them a couple of times when they materialized above our tiny settlement, but it was always just a couple of quick one hand shots followed by a panicked dash for the nearest trees or cabin door. Besides, their constant direction changes made them almost impossible to lead and to hit. Over the years we had lost seven people, including my little brother, who hadn’t made it to safety in time. Few back in Heaventon had ever brought down a hunter, and even then only with a shotgun. Whoever was out there was a marksman, all right. Someone- or something- with a sense of the perverse had designed the hunter drone. The foot and a half long body had the general shape of a grasshopper but was more streamlined. Two sets of wings, two on each side of its body, jutted out nearly perpendicularly, allowing it to hover like a dragonfly. But it could also pull its wings in more parallel to its body like a raptor, allowing it to achieve a very high velocity of vertical descent. The body was encased in a thin, ultra-tough biopolymer shell reinforced with titanium alloy which looked and acted like an insect’s exoskeleton except that it was self-repairing and about a thousand times stronger. Only the “head,” with its half praying mantis, half human appearance- two photosensitive “eyes,” a pheromone receptive “nose” and (formerly) Sweb sensitive “ears-” was relatively unprotected by the biosynthetic exoskeleton. Two inch long and very sharp “fangs” protruded from either side of the “mouth” and gave the head a leonine appearance from the front. Like the metahippus, the hunter bug was capable of consuming a variety of organic material including everything from apple blossoms to rotting animal carcasses. The bugs had the added survival advantage of being able to dispatch living prey as well, injecting a potent neurotoxin with those large fangs. Thunderboy, however, was incapable of intentionally harming human beings, unless directed by his partner (me), and I studiously avoided letting him feed on dead deer and squirrels- that was just too gross. I kicked the dead hunter again. It was still dead. I stood there wondering if the other two were equally dead- their relentless buzzing had certainly stopped. Then I heard a man’s voice, strangely familiar but new at the same time, call out. “You can come out now. They’re all gone.” I froze, hesitating. The voice came again. It was gentle, firm, and reassuring. “You can’t hear them now, can you?” it said. “They won’t be bothering you anymore.” “How do I know you won’t hurt me?” I finally called out. A long pause. “You don’t…but I won’t,” the voice said. And for some reason, I believed it. Five minutes later I rode into the open. Steering Thunderboy with my right hand, I kept my left, my shooting hand, on the butt of my pistol- just in case. But I relaxed when I heard the call of another horse, and saw its source. Sitting erect in the saddle some forty feet away and downriver was a man atop a magnificent grey Appaloosa. I knew instinctively that it wasn’t a metahippus, too, before I even got that close. I took the reins with both hands and trotted up to where the stranger with the beautiful horse waited. I couldn’t take my eyes off the appy until Thunderboy’s greeting whinny gave me a sudden twinge of guilt. He, too, was a beautiful horse…even if he was half machine. I rode up within ten feet of the stranger and stopped abruptly. The man was wearing an old fashioned dark blue shirt with a preacher style collar, black denim pants and calf high leather boots. I could see what looked like a bedroll and a brown leather jacket tied neatly behind his saddle. Underneath the broad brimmed hat he wore I could see electric blue eyes, dazzling in their intensity, stern but with a touch of kindness. The rest of his features were hidden in the shadow of his hat brim. He stared at me coolly, calmly. “Th-thank you for your help,” I finally stammered out. He smiled slightly. “Don’t mention it,” he replied. “I saw them coming from behind you a ways back. Figured you might need a little friendly fire.” Then I noticed the rifle he had slung alongside his saddle. The brass butt plate gleamed in the sunlight. He followed my gaze. “That’s my Henry,” he said matter-of-factly. It’s pretty accurate.” “I guess so!” I exclaimed. “I’ve never known anybody to bring a hunter down with a rifle. Let alone with one shot!” He shrugged slightly. “Well,” he answered, “what most folks don’t realize is that their flight pattern, once they’ve got someone cornered, is actually pretty predictable. “Of course,” he added, “Not too many want to take the time to watch them circling.” He looked up at the sun, now starting its long descent into the western skyline. It would be chilly in a couple of hours, when the sun dipped down below the hills. “We should get a move on,” he said. “You can follow me back up. There won’t be any more hunters coming after you today. It’s what, a two hour ride back to your place? You should be fine.” “That’s right,” I said without thinking. “A couple of hours.” How did he know? On the ride up I focused on the trail just in front of Thunderboy. The drop off to our left was steep, but my ‘Boy was exquisitely sure footed. The grey and his rider in front of us moved as one, like one of those mythical creatures that were half man, half horse. I couldn’t remember what they were called. When we reached level ground at the top of the river canyon he picked up the pace to a jog trot, over to where the rim trail meandered along through the scattered blue oaks and wild grasses. I stopped when we reached the trail, and looked to my left, westward, to where the trail wound and dipped and finally disappeared from view around a thicket of manzanita. When I turned back around, the stranger was already moving out the other direction, upriver. He stopped about thirty feet away and wheeled the big dappled grey around in a perfect pirouette. He sat motionless for a moment, regarding me with those intense azure eyes, shining with reflected sunlight. “You go straight home now Megan, all right?” he asked commandingly. “And trust that metahippus. He’s a good boy.” He wheeled back around and moved off at a jog. I stared after him, and after a moment realized- “How do you know my name?” I called after him. “I never told you…did I?” I didn’t think I had, but wasn’t sure. His reply came trailing back, just as he disappeared around a curve in the trail: “Just a guess,” I heard him call. “You remind me of someone.” “Wait!” I shouted. What’s YOUR NAME?” But he was gone, and only the rim wall on the far side of the canyon replied, softly, reverberating my last words. I sat there and watched the bend in the trail for a long minute. Then I turned Thunderboy about and headed for home.
Posted on: Wed, 30 Jul 2014 00:42:52 +0000
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