The Status Civilization

Chapter Sixteen

Authorities on Omega agree that a Hunted man experiences a change of character. If he were able to look upon the Hunt as an abstract problem, he might arrive at certain more or less valid conclusions. But the typical Hunted, no matter how great his intelligence, cannot divorce emotion from reasoning. After all, he is being hunted. He becomes panic-stricken. Safety seems to lie in distance and depth. He goes as far from home as possible; he goes deep into the ground along the subterranean maze of sewers and conduits. He chooses darkness instead of light, empty places in preference to crowded ones.

This behavior is well known to experienced Hunters. Quite naturally, they look first in the dark, empty places, in the underground passageways, in deserted stores and buildings. Here they find and flush the Hunted with inexorable precision.

Barrent had thought about this. He had discarded his first instinct, which was to hide in the intricate Tetrahyde cloaca. Instead, an hour before dawn, he went directly to the large, brightly lighted building that housed the Ministry of Games.

When the corridors seemed to be deserted, he entered quickly, read the directory, and climbed the stairs to the third floor. He passed a dozen office doors, and finally stopped at the one marked NORINS JAY, SUB-MINISTER OF GAMES. He listened for a moment, then opened the door and stepped in.

There was nothing wrong with old Jay’s reflexes. Before Barrent was through the doorway, the old man had spotted the crimson hunt-marks on his face. Jay opened a drawer and reached into it.

Barrent had no desire to kill the old man. He flung the government-issue needlebeam at Jay, and caught him full on the forehead. Jay staggered back against the wall, then collapsed to the floor.

Bending over him, Barrent found that his pulse was strong. He bound and gagged the sub-minister, and pushed him out of sight under his desk. Hunting through the drawers, he found a CONFERENCE: DO NOT DISTURB sign. He hung this outside the door, and locked it. With his own needlebeam drawn, he sat down behind the desk and awaited events.

Dawn came, and a watery sun rose over Omega. From the window, Barrent could see the streets filled with people. There was a hectic carnival atmosphere in the city, and the noise of the holiday celebration was punctuated by the occasional hiss of a beamer or the flat explosion of a projectile weapon.

By noon, Barrent was still undetected. He looked through windows, and found that he had access to the roof. He was glad to have an exit, just as Jay had suggested.

By mid-afternoon, Jay had recovered consciousness. After struggling with his bonds for a while, he lay quietly under the desk.

Just before evening, someone knocked at the door. “Minister Jay, may I come in?”

“Not at the moment,” Barrent said, in what he hoped was a fair imitation of Jay’s voice.

“I thought you’d be interested in the statistics of the Hunt,” the man said. “So far, Citizens have killed seventy-three Hunteds, with eighteen left to go. That’s quite an improvement over last year.”

“Yes, it is,” Barrent said.

“The percentage who hid in the sewer system was larger this year. A few tried to bluff it out by staying in their homes. We’re tracking down the rest in the usual places.”

“Excellent,” said Barrent.

“None have made the break so far,” the man said. “Strange that Hunteds rarely think of it. But of course, it saves us from having to use the machines.”

Barrent wondered what the man was talking about. The break? Where was there to break to? And how would machines be used?

“We’re already selecting alternates for the Games,” the man added. “I’d like to have your approval of the list.”

“Use your own judgment,” Barrent said.

“Yes, sir,” the man said. In a moment, Barrent heard his footsteps moving down the hall. He decided that the man had become suspicious. The conversation had lasted too long, he should have broken it off earlier. Perhaps he should move to a different office.

Before he could do anything, there was a heavy pounding at the door.

“Yes?”

“Citizen’s Search Committee,” a bass voice answered. “Kindly open the door. We have reason to believe that a Hunted is hiding in there.”

“Nonsense,” Barrent said. “You can’t come in. This is a government office.”

“We can,” the bass voice said. “No room, office, or building is closed to a Citizen on Hunt Day. Are you opening up?”

Barrent had already moved to the window. He opened it, and heard behind him the sound of men hammering at the door. He fired through the door twice to give them something to think about; then he climbed out through the window.

The rooftops of Tetrahyde, Barrent saw at once, looked like a perfect place for a Hunted; therefore they were the last place a Hunted should be. The maze of closely connected roofs, chimneys, and spires seemed made to order for a chase; but men were already on the roofs. They shouted when they saw him.

Barrent broke into a sprint. Hunters were behind him, and others were closing in from the sides. He leaped a five-foot gap between buildings, managed to hold his balance on a steeply pitched roof, and scrambled around the side.

Panic gave him speed. He was leaving the Hunters behind. If he could keep up the pace for another ten minutes, he would have a substantial lead. He might be able to leave the roofs and find a better place for concealment.

Another five-foot gap between buildings came up. Barrent leaped it without hesitation.

He landed well. But his right foot went completely through rotted shingles, burying itself to the hip. He braced himself and pulled, trying to extricate his leg, but he couldn’t get a purchase on the steep, crumbling roof.

“There he is!”

Barrent wrenched at the shingles with both hands. The Hunters were almost within needlebeam distance. By the time he got his leg out, he would be an easy target.

He had ripped a three-foot hole in the roof by the time the Hunters appeared on the next building. Barrent pulled his leg free; then, seeing no alternative, he jumped into the hole.

For a second he was in the air; then he landed feet-first on a table which collapsed under him, spilling him to the floor. He got up and saw that he was in a Hadji-class living room. An old woman sat in a rocking chair less than three feet away. Her jaw was slack with terror; she kept on rocking automatically.

Barrent heard the Hunters crossing to the roof. He went through the kitchen and out the back door, under a tangle of clotheslines and through a small hedge. Someone fired at him from a second-story window. Looking up, he saw a young boy trying to aim a heavy heat beamer. His father had probably forbidden him to hunt in the streets.

Barrent turned into a street, and sprinted until he reached an alley. It looked familiar. He realized that he was in the Mutant Quarter, not far from Myla’s house.

He could hear the cries of the Hunters behind him. He reached Myla’s house, and found the door unlocked.

They were all together—the one-eyed man, the bald old woman, and Myla. They showed no surprise at his entrance.

“So they picked you in the Lottery,” the old man said. “Well, it’s what we expected.”

Barrent asked, “Did Myla skren it in the water?”

“There was no need to,” the old man said. “It was quite predictable, considering the sort of person you are. Bold but not ruthless. That’s your trouble, Barrent.”

The old man had dropped the obligatory form of address for a Privileged Citizen; and that, under the circumstances, was predictable, too.

“I’ve seen it happen year after year,” the old man said. “You’d be surprised how many promising young men like yourself end up in this room, out of breath, holding a needlebeam as though it weighed a ton with Hunters three minutes behind them. They expect us to help them, but mutants like to stay out of trouble.”

“Shut up, Dem,” the old woman said.

“I guess we have to help you,” Dem said. “Myla’s decided on it for reasons of her own.” He grinned sardonically. “Her mother and I told her she was wrong, but she insisted. And since she’s the only one of us who can skren, we must let her have her own way.”

Myla said, “Even with us helping you, there’s very little chance that you’ll live through the Hunt.”

“If I’m killed,” Barrent said, “how will your prediction come true? Remember, you saw me looking at my own corpse, and it was in shiny fragments.”

“I remember,” Myla said. “But your death won’t affect the prediction. If it doesn’t happen to you in this lifetime, it will simply catch up to you in a different incarnation.”

Barrent was not comforted. He asked, “What should I do?”

The old man handed him an armful of rags. “Put these on, and I’ll go to work on your face. You, my friend, are going to become a mutant.”

In a short time, Barrent was back on the street. He was dressed in rags. Beneath them he was holding his needlebeam, and in his free hand was a begging cup. The old man had worked lavishly with a pinkish-yellow plastic. Barrent’s face was now monstrously swollen at the forehead, and his nose was flat and spread out almost to the cheekbones. The shape of his face had been altered, and the livid hunt-marks were hidden.

A detachment of Hunters raced past, barely giving him a glance. Barrent began to feel more hopeful. He had gained valuable time. The last light of Omega’s watery sun was disappearing below the horizon. Night would give him additional opportunities, and with any luck he could elude the Hunters until dawn. After that were the Games, of course; but Barrent wasn’t planning on taking part in them. If his disguise was good enough to protect him from an entire hunting city, there was no reason why he should be captured for the Games.

Perhaps, after the holiday was over, he could appear again in Omegan society. Quite possibly if he managed to survive the Hunt and altogether escape the Games, he would be especially rewarded. Such a presumptuous and successful breaking of the law would have to be rewarded . . . .

He saw another group of Hunters coming toward him. There were five in the group, and with them was Tem Rend, looking somber and proud in his new Assassin’s uniform.

“You!” one of the Hunters shouted. “Have you seen a Quarry pass this way?”

“No, Citizen,” Barrent said, bowing his head respectfully, his needlebeam ready under his rags.

“Don’t believe him,” a man said. “These damned mutants never tell us a thing.”

“Come on, we’ll find him,” another man said. The group moved away, but Tem Rend stayed behind.

“You sure you haven’t seen one of the Hunted go by here?” Rend asked.

“Positive, Citizen,” Barrent said, wondering if Rend had recognized him. He didn’t want to kill him; in fact, he wasn’t sure he could, for Rend’s reflexes were uncannily fast. Right now, Rend’s needlebeam was hanging loosely from his hand, while Barrent’s was already aimed. That split-second advantage might cancel out Rend’s superior speed and accuracy. But if it came to conclusions, Barrent thought, it would probably be a tie; in which case, they would more than likely kill each other.

“Well,” Rend said, “if you do see any of the Hunted, tell them not to disguise themselves as mutants.”

“Why not?”

“That trick never works for long,” Rend said evenly. “It gives a man about an hour’s grace. Then the informers spot him. Now if I were being hunted, I might use mutant’s disguise. But I wouldn’t just sit on a curbstone with it. I’d make a break out of Tetrahyde.”

“You would?”

“Most certainly. A few Hunteds every year escape into the mountains. The officials won’t talk about it, of course, and most citizens don’t know. But the Assassin’s Guild keeps complete records of every trick, device, and escape ever used. It’s part of our business.”

“That’s very interesting,” Barrent said. He knew that Rend had seen through his disguise. Tem was being a good neighbor—though a bad assassin.

“Of course,” Rend said, “it isn’t easy to get out of the city. And once a man’s out, that doesn’t mean he’s clear. There are Hunter patrols to watch out for, and even worse than that—”

Rend stopped abruptly. A group of Hunters were coming toward them. Rend nodded pleasantly and walked off.

After the Hunters had passed, Barrent got up and started walking. Rend had given him good advice. Of course some men would escape from the city. Life in Omega’s barren mountains would be extremely difficult; but any difficulty was better than death.

If he were able to get by the city gate, he would have to watch for the hunting patrols. And Tem had mentioned something worse. Barrent wondered what that was. Special mountain-trained Hunters, perhaps? Omega’s unstable climate? Deadly flora and fauna? He wished Rend had been able to finish the sentence.

By nightfall he had reached the South Gate. Bent painfully over, he hobbled toward the guard detachment that blocked his way out.