Life And Death On The High Plains
Kansas-Nebraska Border, Culling Band, Great Plains Nomadic State, 2083
The night before a cull was always spent on the rough plains beneath the infinite expanse of the black sky. It was a tradition that had begun in the earliest years of the band’s formation. The faint glow of the distant stars, by itself, was not enough to illuminate the land upon which the band roamed, so they lit massive bonfires to keep the unknown creatures lurking in the darkness from their camp. If, however, the band’s cull coincided with the appearance of a full moon, the cool light reflecting off the surface of the Earth’s pale companion imparted the flowing grasses with an ethereal quality. On those nights, the amorphous, ever-shifting silhouettes dancing beyond the perimeter of the camp prompted the wandering guardians of the ecological order to wonder whether they had passed into another plane of existence. This was such a night, and Gerard Kim found himself anxiously pacing— in a close orbit— around the radiant flame leaping from the kindling at the camp’s center.
Tomorrow would bring the first of a series of great culls the band would execute across the Great Plains. They regularly picked up small culling contracts on various species from the Gaia Initiative, but this time the situation was different. Over the last few years, a chain of debilitating diseases had taken their toll on the wolf populations found throughout the region; they were struggling to fulfill their ecological niche with respect to their prey. As a result, the bison population, among others, had expanded beyond the numbers recommended by the Initiative’s Regional Cultivator. Gerard suspected that a number of these diseases were of artificial origin.
“Hey, you look so serious pacing here. What’s up?” asked a soft voice behind him. He froze, then turned slowly to face the woman who had approached him. Don’t say anything stupid, he thought, sudden nerves seemingly fraying the connections in his brain.
“I’m… just thinking about this contract. The G.I. has never given us one this size.” he responded. The flames cast light upon the woman’s face and he caught glimpses of the brilliant emerald eyes and long, rich auburn hair that had captivated him from the first moment they had met. She was as tall as he was, with strong toned muscles and the figure of an Olympic sprinter. Tonight, she was dressed in the standard uniform of the band— hiking boots, flexible pants made from a tough synthetic fiber, knee pads, and a black, form fitting, long sleeve shirt. A mechanical bracer with many functions enveloped her right forearm. Mostly, she used it to communicate with the other band members and the drones they used during their jobs. Gerard had an identical one in his tent. “What about you? What are you up to?”
“Marcus wants to go over the plan for the first cull before everyone goes to sleep. He asked me to round us all up. We’re going to meet by his tent.” she responded.
“Ah ok, I’ll be over in just a second. I need to grab my mech-bracer first.” She smiled warmly, turned, and departed for the meeting point. Gerard, filled with an intense longing, gazed at her as her form was swallowed by the darkness before making his way to his tent. When he had first met Aoife, she had recently come to America from Ireland with her partner. The stresses that the band’s semi-nomadic way of life placed on their relationship ultimately brought about its end. Despite that, Gerard had not yet revealed his feelings for her. Aoife, for her part, had not seemed eager to begin a new relationship with anyone. Indeed, her days were mostly spent practicing the many skills the band employed in their work and travels.
Gerard opened the flap of his tent, stepped inside and looked for his mech-bracer. It was on the ground next to a Korean tal— a gift from his father. Equipping the bracer to his right forearm, he exited his tent and navigated to the spot Aoife had indicated. A tall, burly man with ebony skin and short, graying hair was handing glasses to the people around him.
“Alright, we’re all here now. Let’s begin.” stated Marcus, handing Gerard a pair. “I want to go over the plan for tomorrow one last time.” As he spoke, he activated a cylindrical device set in the center of the circle the band members formed. The glasses Marcus distributed scanned the object and then produced an enlarged, virtual map of the region with the four cardinal directions marked for each member. “By the way, a few of the Lakota boys from the last culling job are going to join us tomorrow. We should be glad for the help.” One of the women in the circle began to giggle. “Is there something funny about my statement, Lorenza?” asked Marcus sternly. Extreme discipline was the hallmark of his command style and it had helped him achieve great success in life. He had little patience for the unserious.
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that one of those boys tried to impress me during the last job by riding a bison. He was so embarrassed we had to rescue him after it knocked him off. And he didn’t even realize I was already taken!” Lorenza glanced affectionately at the woman next to her and gently squeezed her hand as the group joined in laughter.
“What have I told you two about maintaining professional conduct during briefings? Next time, I’ll take you all off contracts for two weeks!” What little patience Marcus had was beginning to vanish.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll stop talking now.” She was still smiling as she spoke.
Marcus shot her one last glare before returning to his speech. “Now, I’ve sent each of you your quota for this gig. Once you’ve hit your number, you are to pull back and offer support to the other riders.” Marcus gestured at a point near the bottom right of the map’s southeast quadrant. Three red arrows, denoting the culling band, appeared at that location. Green circles representing the bison herd appeared just north of the band’s position. “We’ve been following the herd for a few days now. Tomorrow, we’ll force a change in their direction. We’re going to push them west for a few miles and then north. There’s a recently settled town called New Wellington near that area that could use some protein. Most of your kills should happen around there. They’ve offered to host us for the night once we’re finished.” Everyone nodded in understanding. “We’re sticking to non-lethal methods to get the herd moving. You all know what to do. Get to bed, we have an early morning tomorrow.”
Gerard awoke nearly an hour before the first rays of the morning leapt across the plains. Having donned the band’s uniform, he stepped outside his tent and breathed in the cool air swirling through the camp. Within the hour, this place would be bustling with activity as cullers packed up their belongings and placed them a mile west from the ashy remains of the bonfire. In exchange for taking on the contract, Marcus had negotiated the use of the Gaia Initiative’s carrier drones for the transportation of the band’s belongings. All packs and tents would be delivered to New Wellington before noon. Gerard was looking forward to the night of comfort that awaited them once they had finished the cull. The sixth and seventh decades of the 21st century had seen enormous waves of rural emigrants abandoning their ancestral homes for the glamour, variety, and opportunity offered in America’s many megalopolises. These forsaken towns, for the most part, had faded from existence. The flora and fauna of the plains had reclaimed them; the land was wild once more. In the eighth decade, however, a different wave of Americans— suspecting they were much too reliant on technology and had lost the vigor and resilience of their forefathers— set out to repeat the pioneering projects that had defined the country’s infancy. They soon realized that taming nature was not as simple a task as they supposed. As such, any assistance outsiders provided in the procuring of food was deeply appreciated. Overly generous acts of hospitality were common among these settlements. New Wellington was one of many.
Gerard reentered his tent and began organizing his equipment. A unique feature of the culling band— one that could be traced to the idiosyncrasies of its leader, Marcus— was its absolute rejection of firearms and other hyper-advanced projectile weapons. In his youth, Marcus had worked with cullers who did not eschew these armaments; the exaggerated advantages these bands possessed when dealing with their prey had nearly soured the young culler on his chosen profession. Rather than return to his family in Georgia, Marcus had decided to even the odds. He would feel no guilt culling wild beasts if the beasts, likewise, had opportunities to kill him. Over the years, tales of Marcus’s exploits using relatively primitive weapons spread throughout the communities of the Great Plains Nomadic State. Young men and women, eager to test themselves against the roaming megafauna, flocked to his band to earn reputations as vigorous athletes and fearsome hunters.
Gerard shared that dream and equipped himself accordingly. In his pack, he placed ten extendable javelins that, when collapsed, measured the length of his forearm and hand. The shafts of these weapons were made of an aluminum-graphene composite material that was light and strong. This material ensured that its user would tire gradually, rather than immediately, during long journeys or periods of intense physical activity. The tip of the javelin, meanwhile, was composed of tungsten steel and housed a secret. It was connected to an interior spring mechanism that could launch the tip further into the penetrated object five seconds after piercing its target. If Gerard struck well, it was likely that he could hit a major organ, thus ensuring an efficient kill. But that required getting dangerously close to the creature. And there was always the possibility that his prey might knock him from his horse, making him an easy target for other bison in the herd. In addition to the javelins, Gerard added ten flashbangs for defensive purposes. Satisfied with his choice of weapons, he closed his pack, flung it around his shoulders, and began to load his belongings into the containers in the tent. Visions of the coming hunt crept into his mind. Today I will live or I will die.
Ring… ring… ring… The rhythmic sound of church bells emanated from the drones flying ahead of the culling band. Three Lakota hunters rode their horses over to where Gerard and Aoife were mounted and waiting in silence.
“You know, I think this is my favorite part of your process,” said the lead rider to the two cullers. “I don’t know where you got this idea, but it’s pretty funny to think about.” The melodic music of an electric guitar joined the bells, followed by a ride cymbal and kick drum.
“No one really knows, Hotah, but the most common version of the story says police officers in Montana— you know back when they were people, probably half a century or more ago— were having trouble getting bison to move off of the main roads in the state. They tried everything, but the bison only responded to this song.” explained Aoife. “We’ve used it every single time I’ve been on a contract and Marcus has probably used it for a few decades. It just feels right at this point.”
“It certainly gets the blood pumping.”
The drones accelerated their approach from the east. A few bison heard the music they blasted from their speakers and turned their heads to glance at the source of the racket.
“I’m rolling thunder, pouring rain / I’m coming on like a hurricane / My lightning’s flashing across the sky / You’re only young, but you’re gonna die.”
Reluctantly, the bison began heading west. But the music was just getting started. The riders nudged their horses forward until they broke out into a slow trot.
“I won’t take no prisoners, won’t spare no lives / Nobody’s putting up a fight / I got my bell, I’m gonna take you to hell / I’m gonna get ya, Satan get ya.”
“HELL’S BELLS!” The drones let out a chain of explosive sounds that drove the bison mad. Charging away from the floating mechanical predators in sheer animal terror, the herd accelerated west along the route the band had indicated the previous evening. Gerard and the other riders tailed them. As the morning progressed, the drones maneuvered around the herd, flashing bright lights and blasting music whenever it appeared the beasts were veering off course. It was all rather uneventful. By one in the afternoon, both the herd and the riders had reached the cull zone. A few of the riders dismounted and refreshed themselves with water, bread, and bison jerky. Others inspected their weapons a final time to ensure they were functional. A woman’s voice— smooth, clear, musical— rang out across the plains.
“Hotah, don’t forget to call us if you need a rescue team! You just have to press the button on the right!” Lorenza’s laughter erupted from her diminutive form as she pointed to a button on her mech-bracer. The young Lakota rider, mortified, felt the blood rush to his face, turning his copper skin the color of the oxidized iron characteristic of the Martian landscape. And with that, the remaining riders saddled up and prepared to cull the herd. Marcus barked orders as they divided themselves into groups of two and three. Aoife rode over to Gerard.
“Want to pair up this time?” she asked.
“Definitely. What are you working with today?”
“Sticking with my bow for now. I’ve got a long blade in case one gets too close. You’re sticking with the javelins?”
“I’ve had a lot of success with them. After a kill, I just pick them back up and move on to the next one.”
“If I get bored, you’ll let me use one, right?” The request surprised him. Aoife normally kept to herself, even when she rode with others. Come to think of it, she had been quite friendly today and had spent fewer than perhaps ten minutes apart from him. He felt his heart race.
“Of course, let me show you how to use one.” Gerard removed a javelin from the pack with his right hand and held it off to the side with the tip facing the sky. A sharp jerk of his arm downwards caused the weapon to extend until it was approximately two-thirds the height of an average man. He then flipped the javelin around so that the tip was pointing at the ground. “There’s a hidden spring mechanism that will activate once the javelin pierces the bison… or the ground. It’ll activate about five seconds after contact.” To make his point, he thrust the weapon into the soft earth beneath him. A loud click confirmed that the mechanism was working. Lifting the armament revealed a thin, sharp blade the length of Gerard’s forearm protruding from its main body. “Hit the right spot and that’ll puncture through any organ in its path. Then, you can reset the mechanism using this button.” The tip retracted.
“Don’t worry, I’ve done this before.” she said, beaming him a smile. He felt his temperature rise in embarrassment. Noting his predicament, she laughed and added, “Thanks for the refresher though— it was cute.” If Marcus had not signaled the beginning of the cull, Gerard might have remained on those plains— pondering over and over again the meaning behind her words— for a thousand years. Luckily for him, the war cries let out by the riders jolted him from his stupor. Gerard and Aoife’s eyes met for a brief moment. Then, they nodded, whooped, and braced themselves as their horses galloped towards the bison.
To be continued…