The Smolder

Foreword

It is with pleasure that I recommend to you the following sketches of pre-Billboard War events in northeast Northam. In my experience, that struggle is, as my celebrated ancient kinsman, Alessandro Manzoni, said of the 1630 Milan plague, an event in the history of our country more celebrated than well known. He, of course, quite adeptly remedied the prevailing ignorance with his painstaking research and masterful writing. The following account, while not of the caliber of his work, nonetheless is a noteworthy entry in the growing field of Smolder-era literature aimed at the adventure-seeking philosophical layman, but researched well enough to be of some use to the scholar.

However, since my studies, and that of some of my esteemed colleagues, have turned up additional information on the time period, and on some of the characters introduced in this tale, particularly Oleevaba, I have appended an afterword in this edition, for those who wish to know more.

Dr. Gilbert Manzoni,

Department Chairman, Dept. of History,

Lady of the Lake University,

Westbendtun, Indiana, Northam

5 August 3130 A.C.

The light shines in the darkness,

and the darkness hasn’t overcome it.

<[1] She was 23 and pampered, the poster child for her people. She was lovely in a light brown, flat-faced, curvaceous way, with gloriously curly dark hair that split the difference between brown and black. Four generations back she would have been listed as Progressive Oahunian, one of the Hawaiian classifications. But three generations back the Advanced Midstate New York ethnic group had been designated and transplanted, with her grandparents in the first crop of babies assembled as the new breed. To be clear, there had been efforts to form the new type for five generations before that, with resolute scientists feverishly expending the greatest care in genetic mixing, and diligence in burying and not reporting specimens that didn't turn out as expected. Finally, though, the combination of overt and covert efforts had paid off, and the fledgling breed had been launched, with the full blessing and support of the government. It needed a bit of adjustment yet, primarily in its ability to naturally withstand the relatively cold weather of inland New York. But it was a promising ethnic group all the same. For one thing, it utilized calories more efficiently than average, a boon not to be taken lightly in a society obsessed with efficiency on one hand, and health on the other.

Oleevaba had nicely met breed standards, but also possessed interesting minor variations that the breeders thought showed potential, especially in regard to forming a breed obviously distinct from the Advanced Polyracial Kansan breed being formed from similar stock. Oleevaba was, in that respect, and more than she knew, a gift. There were coveted rewards for breeders who formed distinct breeds. On the other hand, to form a fuzzy breed that too closely resembled one already in existence held forth prospects of harsh punishment. The Advanced Polyracial Kansan overseers and the Advanced Midstate New York project managers had started to get ulcers before, by small strokes of genius and large strokes of luck, both teams got babies that moved the standards to new levels, and happily in different directions – Oleevaba in AMNY's case, and a child named Dorothy for the APK team. (The name Dorothy, someone had said, had historical significance in Kansas, although no one seemed to remember why.)

Oleevaba knew she was considered new and improved stock. Her trainers made sure of that. But it was deemed advisable to not let her know how much the breeders depended on her. Instead, the plan was to simply train her as well as any child could be trained, and hope she lived up to her potential.

There were, however, early, ominous signs of potential trouble when she was growing up. For instance, when she was five she insisted on doing everything with her left hand, while holding her right hand behind her back, just to prove to herself that she could do it. For a whole week she did this, despite not having been told to do it by a proper authority. Nothing anyone said or did could dissuade her. At five, she just slipped in under the age limit for allowing this sort of nonsense. It was the government's experience that defiant, unruly five-year-olds occasionally turned into ruly adults. The odds became unworkable, however, at age six, or so the regulations and charts and studies said.

When she was seven, she once tried to see if she could go a whole day without walking, hopping everywhere instead. That she did walk, when told sternly to do so, was put down in her favor, but still, she had, again, come up with ideas on her own – and at age seven, no less. Again, by luck (or perhaps the agency of a guardian angel), she slipped in under the wire for the age at which this sort of radical sense of initiative was allowed.

From age eight onward her record was clean. The Advanced Midstate New York ethnic group was duly noted as being perhaps, at this stage of breed development, a bit on the hard-to-train side, but demonstrably tractable from age eight onwards.

As prototype, her job was to maintain a healthy lifestyle according to government guidelines – to eat what she was told to eat, and do specific exercise routines, etc. – and to submit to testing once a week to see how she fared when compared to prototypes of other breeds on the same regimen. Also, she represented her breed in shows and contests.

She fared well, which brought her team great praise, and numerous more tangible rewards.

She had long exhibited an affinity for helping others in need. This, while unusual, was deemed a good quality, as long as she applied it properly, through government channels, with adequate oversight and in approved ways.

Over the course of time, she had, without noticing it, become quite content to automatically go through government channels. But then, as far as she could remember, she'd never known the government channels not to work.

<[2] The walnut tree stood above a house assigned to several members of an ethnic group that was somewhat out of favor with government breeders, primarily because their look seemed outdated somehow. If they'd been notably efficient in food processing, it might have helped, but in addition to looking old fashioned, they had hearty metabolisms, especially if allowed to become athletic. To save resources while their fate was being decided, they were assigned the job of staying home, doing as close to nothing as possible. It was rather like the idea of people trapped in a closed vault, saving oxygen by not moving around, but in this case it was less a matter of need than of twisted principle: food was allotted in those days, and those in charge of parceling it out resented those who needed more calories than others. That there was always a surplus, which rotted before it could be allotted (some of it rotted in warehouses, but most of it was thrown out, to rot less-distressingly out of view) made no difference to their way of thinking. The goal was to reduce demand, and if that meant forcing selected groups of people into sedentary lives, so be it. Or so they thought in those dark days.

The tree was large even for a genetically modified walnut tree of the inadvertently rampant type. More to the point, it no longer stood straight. It was obvious that, without intervention, it was destined to fall on the house of the people assigned to stay home. As much to the point, despite the danger, those people quietly, dutifully, stupidly, stayed put.

It was Oleevaba's fate that her assigned routine included a walk over a scientifically arranged route, one with just the right mix of flat stretches and inclines, and that this route took her past the house overshadowed by the walnut tree.

At the first sign of the ominous tilting, she reported the anomaly. Being a dutiful citizen with total faith in her government's ability to protect one and all, she then assumed the matter was finished as far as she was concerned.

But walk after walk, the tree was still there, still tilting.

She now tried assuming that the government had found some way to stabilize the massive tree at its new angle.

But the tilt became more worrisome.

Surely, then, there was some regulation that prohibited touching a large walnut tree that threatened to fall upon an inhabited house. Being a dutiful citizen, she took herself to a city office and offered to apologize if her previous notification had been in error. The clerk (in those days known as an Explainer) explained that her notification was not in error, and – as was only to be expected – the matter was being taken care of in approved fashion. Oleevaba apologized for not having fully understood that without an explanation. The Explainer replied that that was what he was there for, and sent her home with warnings not to question government actions again.

The tilt became worse.

Oleevaba wandered close one day to see if a plaque had been installed. Perhaps it had been designated a historic tree, or the tilting itself was of scientific interest, or perhaps the house and tree had been chosen for a study of structural damage.

There was no plaque.

Oleevaba had long loved science, and knew a bit of physics, and more than a bit about gravity. There was no doubt in her mind that the situation was hazardous, indeed that the situation had become decidedly grim. That others did not share this knowledge was obvious from the bystanders who sometimes gathered to marvel at a tree that changed attitude. To them it was a pleasant novelty, further proof that the government knew what it was about and that it had the power to rearrange even mighty trees to its purposes, whatever mysterious purposes those might be. If you're taught to see everything through the prism of government, and are otherwise truth deficient, that might seem sensible. But it didn't make sense to Oleevaba, who had filled much of her time studying hard subjects so that she could beat other breed prototypes in academic competitions.

Oleevaba had, dangerously for her, acquired a competitive spirit. Inside proper channels, this was seen as a good thing. By all means she should outscore other breed representatives if she could. But outside proper channels, such a spirit might lead her into actions reminiscent of those hopping and left-handed offenses of her childhood, and so she had been trained, and trained, and trained, to not be competitive without the guidance and approval of AMNY team leadership.

Despite all her training, when Oleevaba saw the tree threatening to fall on that house in the foreseeable future, she wanted to beat it. She wanted to overcome it. Outmaneuver it. Stop it. Win.

She hadn't much seen the occupants of the house, them being ordered to stay inside, but she knew they were there. And, since they hadn't been declared expersons, she wanted to help them.

It was in that spirit – wanting to do battle with the tree and feeling a type of concern for the persons in its path – that Oleevaba walked along the footpath on Neighbors Helping Neighbors Day.

Neighbors Helping Neighbors Day consisted in doing 'volunteer work' required of you by the government, and then going about your usual business. Oleevaba had dutifully read a story to her buildingmates in the common room. She had dutifully sat through the theatrics assigned to her buildingmates to perform. Properly warmed up, they had then inflicted their various talents on the less privileged all-areas-held-in-common household across the street. They then sat through the display of talents assigned to the neighbors, including watching one of them apply a final coat of paint to a footstool he'd been assigned to paint and then give to the government to give to someone else. And then they had all gone, dutifully, about their usual routines.

It appeared that everything was going as planned on that particular day devoted to boosting a feeling of civic mindedness. But on her walk that day, leaning into the wind and bravely not crying despite the cold rain slashing her face – after all, was it not her people's duty to adjust to the cold? – Oleevaba saw that the walnut tree was, at long last, slowly letting loose its hold on the Earth.

Three young men were at the tree. They weren't dressed like government officials, or like any breed with which she was familiar. They weren't acting like anyone with whom she was familiar, either. They moved with urgency, earnestness, and concern for one another.

One was making a gash in the tree with an ax. He stopped to wipe his brow. I think it's Sam's turn, he said.

It's just as well, considering that you swing like a girl, Sam said, kidding, as he took the ax.

Just then they saw Oleevaba, standing on the path, peering through the whipping rain. They exchanged guilty glances, before jointly trying to look more official.

Here, now, do you want to become an experson? Keep going. Save yourself, their leader called out.

Oleevaba was doubly intrigued now, all the more so because the man seemed genuinely concerned for her. She wasn't used to that. Moreover, the idea of becoming an experson – more specifically, the idea of a person being able to save herself from becoming one – was baffling. To her understanding, if you deserved to become an experson, you became one. If you were a good person, you needn't worry about it. She was a good person. In fact, she was better than most, with the credentials and accolades to prove it.

Officials coming! came from up the path, with the muted focus of a voice put through a device that shrinks it to a beam.

Grab tools. Everyone down, the leader ordered.

Nothing doing, Sam said, in what he mistakenly thought was a voice too low for Oleevaba to hear. What with the girl watching and the chance of the officials stopping to see what's up, we might be locked down for too long. I'll hide and come back when the coast is clear. With that bit of insubordination, Sam bolted for the bushes, ax in hand.

His blindsided companions briefly weighed whether to go after him. Respect for authority, and for duly approved emergency procedures, not to mention the psychological suction of seeing their spotters following those procedures and going where they were supposed to go, sent them dashing for the safety of the underground instead – all the while reasoning that Sam was good at hiding, and therefore, surely, would be all right (at least until a spotter, or someone else, snitched to the lieutenant), especially since it's easier for one man to hide than three.

Oleevaba hadn't heard the carefully aimed warning about officials, and had only picked up pieces of what Sam and the other man had said: Everyone down from the one fellow, nothing… I'll… come back when… is clear from Sam. Again, she was intrigued. But she was on an assigned walk, so she dutifully, automatically, moved along, down the path.

She hadn't gone far when she was tempted to vary her routine, just this once. As a privileged person, she was entitled, under the circumstances; it being for a good cause, after all.

She went back to watch the drama of the tree and the house and Sam and his ax. After all, it was Neighbors Helping Neighbors Day, and he might need some help. She rather hoped so. That tree had become her foe over the weeks, and she wanted to fight it, or, at the least, be present at its Noble Demise.

<[3] Sam Harvard couldn't believe the girl had come back. He didn't know whether to dance for joy (was there any woman more beautiful in the world?), or to writhe in agony that she was endangering herself, and himself, not to mention nearly everyone and everything he held dear.

He decided he didn't have time for anything along the lines of dancing or writhing, or standing around gawking for that matter. He needed to redirect that tree, or he needed to get the mind-numbed people out of the house. One way or another, he was determined to save innocent lives, or die in the attempt. Besides, he had come to see this tree as a personal foe of sorts. He wanted to fight it and win.

He took off his jacket so he could swing more manfully, assumed an air of I have every right to be here, whacking away at this tree and moved up to the tree and started whacking. He neglected to say hello to the girl, in part because an official most likely wouldn't have recognized her presence, or so he thought, and in part because he found her amazingly distracting but didn't dare divert much focus from the deadly vegetation poised to crash its mighty mass on top of whoever was ignorant enough not to get out of its way.

The girl, he was pleased to note, seemed to understand that there was real danger. She was standing well away, where she should be safe even if the tree did a wild dance on its way down. Good for her.

He was monitoring her out of the corner of his eye, while resolutely trying to concentrate on his ax swings, when the wind ripped a large branch off the tree.

He dove for safety, but not fast enough. He dug his way out of the debris, stepped a safe distance away, and took stock. One arm seemed the only injury worth noticing, and it didn't seem all that bad, i.e., it wasn't bent in odd shapes, and no bone was sticking out. Probably it was only a little break, or even just a crack, or perhaps it only felt like a broken arm? It was scraped and bruised, but he was used to scrapes and bruises, and, anyway, these weren't massive ones. And, thank goodness, it was his left arm that was hurt, which left him his best arm to work with. Doubly determined, he went at the tree again.

Broken bones do not respond well to jarring.

He backed off, looked at the tree, at the house in its shadow, and back at the tree, trying to calculate odds and possibilities. He glanced at the girl, to see where she was and what she was doing.

Show me how to do it, Oleevaba said, stepping forward.

Sam tried to ignore her, but couldn't.

It's dangerous, he muttered.

I am trained for arm-emphasis physical activity. I can do it. I shall simultaneously monitor branches. I have training and ability in multitasking, she said, with confidence and pride.

He wanted to tell her that he was somewhat less concerned about the tree than the government officials who'd placed themselves in charge of tree cutting, but he was afraid to bring it up, afraid it would only make matters worse.

He handed her the ax, and explained the idea of making cuts on two sides to better control the tree's fall. He taught her how to stand, and swing, and the best way to go about making a proper cut, before miserably stepping back to direct her from where he could see danger above her head in time to be of use, at least in theory.

After she'd completed a few swings, surprisingly well done for a rookie, it dawned on Sam that the girl was barehanded.

Take my gloves, he offered, in a mix of gallantry and recklessness.

The gloves, Oleevaba noted, were strangely warm and comforting in the storm, never mind that they protected her hands from blisters.

After a few more swings, the walnut tree changed its tune.

Sam shepherded his volunteer away from the tree. It's too late now to do anything but hope we've done all right, he said, gently. She's coming down soon, ready or not. He shifted his gaze to the house. I think we might have got it away from them, but I wish they would have come out to stand out of reach all the same. Trees sometimes laugh at lumberjacks, and it's never funny for anyone within reach. And, mind you, we must be ready for bits that fly out when she hits the ground. It's like an explosion, sometimes.

The tree bent at its newly made hinge of cuts. As it toppled, it jerked out of line just enough to claw a handful of shingles off the edge of the roof, almost as if to prove itself full of malevolent force. Its massive body rocked the earth on impact. The tree quivered while structure fought momentum and gravity, then lay still and forceless.

We won! Oleevaba said.

Well, yes, they had, Sam thought. It wasn't a flawless win – the out-of-place shingles attested to that – but it was a win. He was amazed, though, that a regular pseudo-citizen would know that, the concept of winning having so firmly been drilled out of most of them.

You're expersons now, both of you, a woman taunted from inside the just-saved house. We reported you. We know our duty.

Sam smiled and shook his head. Happens all the time, he said. Here, now, I'll be all right, once I get out of sight again. But what shall we do about you? You're welcome to join us, I guess.

Oleevaba ignored the stayhomes. Clearly, they couldn't be talking to her, given what they'd said. Besides, they were stayhomes. Sam, on the other hand, deserved attention. He didn't look official, nor did he talk like an official, but he seemed to be possessed of some authority.

You must be an official in a department I do not know about yet. If you are assigning me somewhere, of course I will go. I know my duty, she said.

Sam suddenly remembered his. He didn't have his Rescuer License yet. It hadn't seemed necessary to get one, since he was never sent aboveground except in the company of a certified Rescuer. He wished he'd been able to see ahead to his present insubordination, but there it was. He was ill equipped to even guess if he was being conned by a government agent to whom he'd inadvertently said too much already.

He couldn't believe she was a government agent. On the other hand, he'd already disobeyed orders once today, and it was no good racking up more offenses, especially offenses that might endanger innocents. He swallowed his disappointment (truly, the girl was enchanting as well as beautiful), and said, On second thought, and taking Article 23472-LP-86 into consideration, with precedence under the circumstances over Article 145-JW-99951, the proper thing for you to do is to go on about your usual routine and not volunteer to anyone what you've done in regards to the tree, or the people who were here, including me.

This seemed to strike Oleevaba as a normal bit of instruction. She returned his ax and gloves, and walked off.

Sam – rashly, foolishly, but with a practical excuse – called her back.

Will you just tie up this shirt for me, to use as a sling? Before you go? he said, easing himself painfully out of his shirt.

She fixed him up with a snug sling, done up with the proper sort of knot, and stood there waiting for further instructions. So he asked her to help him get his jacket on over one arm and both shoulders. That was as much as he dared ask for, he found.

Thank you, you may go now, he said.

She turned and left, leaving Sam to fuss at himself for telling her thank you. Topside officials were not known for saying thank you.

He consoled himself with the fact that she hadn't seemed to attach any undue significance to what he'd said. He further consoled himself with the fact that it had taken a great deal of willpower on his part to tell her to go. Illogically or not, it helped to think he was sacrificing for her sake.

He watched her walk away and fought off a strange but strong urge to chase after her, to beg her to defect to his side.

Knowing that she had no idea that there were sides from which to choose didn't help any. But it reinforced the idea that it was foolish beyond belief to be standing in the rain, out in the open, focusing on her, endangering her by his extended attention. He took off, determined to draw attention away from her, as well as from the tunnel entrance his friends had used to get to safety.

Dear God, if ever anyone ever needed a guardian angel, it's that girl now, he said as he went. But I guess you know that already. Still, I'm holding her up to you. Please, God, look out for her.

He fell silent. His goal in life shrank to a need to find safe shelter without endangering anyone else. There was no reason to think he couldn't do it, he told himself – provided he could avoid capture, and assuming he didn't faint or drop dead from pain and cold and wet and hunger in the meantime.

He headed toward an area devoid of tunnel entrances (known locally as an empty zone). Once he'd convinced himself he wasn't being followed, he'd be free to concern himself with finding civilization again. But who knew how long that would take?

A wall of wind slammed into him. He heard branches snapping off trees, and whole trees coming down, uprooted. Cold rain pelted him, seasoned with leaves and twigs.

<[4] Oleevaba was slightly late getting home, but not the least concerned about the infraction since her conscience was clear. She decided to take a long, hot bath, a luxury that she, as breed prototype, was allowed after a walk in cold weather.

Once warmed up and clean, with ethnically correct scents applied to her skin to correct the rain-washed effect, she felt much better. She pulled on seasonably correct clothing. She eased the worst tangles out of her hair, before styling it into the proper style for her breed. The proper style at the time was studiously casual to the point of half wild. It took considerable skill on her part to achieve just the right result.

Her thoughts went back to Sam. She hoped his breed would perform well enough under local conditions to be continued. She rather liked the young man, and by extension, his people.

That he wasn't someone bred to standards and expected to obey the breed rules didn't occur to her. It was beyond imagining.

<[5] Sam tried to pace himself, but it was hard. Fear generated by being alone topside was distorting his senses and his judgment, he realized. Knowing that, and being able to do anything about it, were two different things, he found, all the more so because his mind insisted upon dancing with thoughts of prisoners of war who'd snapped under torture. Besides that, his ax seemed to have an uncommon facility for getting snagged on things. It also seemed to be getting heavier as he went. Pain did seem to take something out of a fellow, too; even an otherwise hale and hearty young man.

He sat on a fallen log, largely to catch his breath, but also to think.

Now that he stopped to think, he wondered why he'd been carrying the ax in a white-knuckled fist, held halfway up as if half-cocked for a fight, instead of resting it on his shoulder.

He concluded he'd been half panicked, and hadn't been thinking. He didn't plan to admit that to anyone but himself, but there it was.

He dug food from his pockets