Juanita Coulson - Unto the Last Generation

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Unto the Last

Generation by Juanita

Coulson

Chapter I

"This is as far as I go, mister."

Richard Parnell forced his mind up out of that discouraging

sheaf of statistics. He'd spread the charts out, covering his case

and the taxi's seat. Now, even as he argued, he began collecting

strewn papers. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't he ever get any new jokes." The cabbie irritably

slapped at his blaring radio, overriding a faked laugh-track.

"Heard that one when I was a kid."

"We all did. Those… comedians… have been on the air for

thirty years, at least. But then there's not an oversupply of young

entertainers, these days." Parnell slammed shut his case on the

bulging files and badly-jogged charts. "Why are we stopping

here? I said the Life Sciences Building on Fleet."

"Yuck, yuck, yuck!'" The driver sarcastically aped the tinny

laughter vibrating the radio's speakers. "It ain't funny, chuckie."

Then he threw a bored glare over his shoulder at Parnell. "Told

you. This is as far as I go. I ain't requked to go past Eighteenth.

It's in my license."

"I see. And you don't make a practice of informing your fares

of that little fact in advance." Parnell scanned the cabbie's

certificate, reading the legalistic details under the photo ident.

"Peculiar. There's no such restriction listed here."

"Well, it's in the… the fine print. Anyway, I ain't goin' up to

Fleet."

Sighing, Parnell wrestled with the rusted door handle. "As a

matter of fact, it isn't in the fine print. Or anywhere else. Which

you'd know if you ever learned how to read. Don't you oil these

things? Get outside and pull."

Eager to assist an unhappy customer on his way, the cabbie

helped Parnell pry open the door. The hinges creaked with

agony. "Don't make things the way they useta," he complained,

kicking a corroded rocker panel for emphasis. "Everything's.

fallin' apart."

"Including the people—and the service," Parnell said archly.

He wondered what the cabbie expected from this pile of junk.

Taxis were the only non-military vehicles on the streets

now—and the only ones allowed to use those old, dwindling

supplies of gasoline.

"Hey, don't blame me," the cabbie flared. "Listen, I'm only a…

a municipal employee. Yessir. It's you that's crazy, wantin' to go

down to Fleet. Don't you know it's a disty day?"

Parnell grimaced. He had forgotten. "And you think it'll be

safer for me to walk past a dole point than for you to drive me

there?"

"Hah! Sure! Food's gettin' scarcer and scarcer. Why, only last

week they tipped over Fred's cab in one o' them riots. Some o'

those erects go crazy when they miss out on a dole. Course, Fred

didn't have much of a cab anyway," the skinny little driver

conceded. "None o' them are worth much any more.

Can't get any parts. And they're takin' all the metal and

makin' replacement parts for tanks and flitters. Army gets

everything…"

Slapping a couple of units in the man's grimy palm, Parnell

said, "Here. That's all this ride was worth. I've deducted your tip

and the balance of the fare. If you'll read the fine print on your

license you'll find I have that option." An excusable lie. How

could the poor fool catch him in it? He set off hurriedly, ignoring

the shouted obscenities wishing him mal voyage.

Parnell dismissed the encounter with contemptuous pity. A

stupid, inept cab driver. But most of the young people were

inept, untrained. And too many of them were stupid. Perhaps

that wasn't fair. Not much could be done with them, or was.

Statistically they were one of the smallest segments of the

population. And illiterate. That had been true since the school

systems started disintegrating years ago. Not enough children to

justify the teaching profession, and eventually there hadn't been

any teachers, or schools. Or child-sized clothing or furniture or

toys or…

He could hear the babble from the disty station now. Parnell

stopped, considering alternatives. He couldn't detour left. The

block that way was a ten meters' high jumble of debris all the

way down to the river; last month's marina fire had ruined the

area. Could he go right? All streets paralleling the lake in that

direction were a no-man's land. If he tried to reach Fleet by that

route he'd get brained by a brick.

Parnell dug out his security lock and clamped the brief case to

his left wrist. If he held it close to his side the crowd might not

notice it as he sneaked past them. The charts and graphs the

case contained were worthless to that mob, but they wouldn't

know that.

They'd see an object to grab, something that might contain

food or other booty.

Wind tore along the street. It stirred trash to a froth and

rattled rubbish across the broken pavement. Like a bitter

comment from the decaying city, a Greek chorus for human

tragedy. Parnell edged forward slowly, staying close to the wall.

He was smearing brick dust and smoky residue on his suit,

annoyed at the necessity; clothing was hard come by. The noisy

rabble was very intent on the barred door of the disty

outlet—and they were facing away from Parnell. Good!

"Watch who you're pushin', you old goat!"

"No manners at all!"

"There's enough for everyone, folks. Just be patient." One of

the government's distributors, shouting from between the bars.

He had better sense than to open up unless he had a food

package in his hand, one he could get rid of in a hurry. "Hey,

turn that thing down, will you?"

"Aaaaa… !" A stuttering howl of derisive refusal from the

under-30s clustered about a guy with a porta-vid. They

segregated themselves from the other two groups in the

crowd—the Olders and a few out of work Middle-Agers. The

young people were a pocket of belligerence. A whip antenna

swayed above them and unmuted audio blasted from the

porta-vid.

"… sent us to foreign lands to die in their wars. They did that

to us all through history. It's on the tapes, Youngers. Listen and

learn. And now what do they want? They'll expect us to support

them in their old age. Well, who's going to support us in our old

age? You see anybody coming along to take care of us when we're

old and feeble? Think about it!"

Parnell gritted his teeth in a silent snarl. Nevin

Detloff. One couldn't escape that punk politician. The

porta-vid's screen was hidden by a wall of flesh, but there was no

mistaking the slick, inflammatory rhetoric.

I'd like to take that scrawny little demagogue by the scruff of

the neck, Parnell thought. Bring him out here on the streets. Give

him an up-close sample of what his speeches do. Especially on

food disty days. Make him see the friction, the growing hatred

between generations Detloff's orations caused.

"Please, young man, that hurts my ears." An old, old woman

leaning waveringly on a cane. She clutched a lacy pie-plate of a

hat against the tugging wind.

"Too loud for ya, huh, granny? Have a real good listen!" A

runty youngster thrust the porta-vid at the old woman's face,

nearly unbalancing her frail figure.

"Stop that!" A portly gentleman with a fringe of white hair

around his bald pate played protector. He caught the woman's

arm to keep her from falling.

"Aaaaa, you old creet. Why don't you go somewhere and die?"

"Hangin' around to use up the food. You had your chance. You

ate good when you was our age, didn't you?"

"Go on, grampa! Get out o' here…"

"Dump it! Aaaaa… !"

Parnell was abreast of the rising tumult, beginning to sweat,

watching the seeds of riot sprouting. The cabbie might have

been surly, but he'd shown good sense when he refused to drive

down this street.

"Watch who you're shovin', chuckie!" came more and more

from the crowd.

"Hurry up in there with that food!"

The mass surged forward. A false alarm. Some slight rattling

at the bars of the distribution station. The frenzy of movement

was enough to send a few in the crowd stumbling to the

pavement.

"Get back! Give 'em room! Don't step on 'em!" A humane plea

lost in the excitement. The throng was dividing ever more

sharply along generational lines. Youngers bumping Olders, the

Middle-Agers trying to avoid associating with either group.

Respect for weakness and age was evaporating. Hunger was the

sole determinant here.

Finally the barred gate shot upward. Immediately several

brawny, uniformed government workers blocked the opening.

They bellowed, "Have your identity cards ready. Blue cards! Blue

cards! No pushing! There's plenty for everybody!" Behind the

men women assistants unpacked the precious food packages.

They began an efficient assembly line distribution.

"Cards! Have your cards!"

A forest of waving hands clutched idents. The distributors

gripped automatic punches, validated each card shoved at them.

Then a box would be thrust into eager hands. The recipient

would turn aside hastily, leaving a vacancy for the next

dole-seeker. A good system—if no one got panicky, thinking the

food supply would run out before they got theirs.

But that problem arose. Fast. "Leggo, dammit!" one of the

disty workers yelped. He flailed free of greedy hands. "Take it

easy! Cards first! No pushing back there! I said—no pushing!"

He might have been shouting into a thunderstorm, with as

much effect. A brutal shoving match had started. Gasps and

cries from those bunched in and cut off from air. A thin,

middle-aged man leaped up the wall protecting the distributors.

Deftly, he snatched a package and dropped back into the crowd,

bulling his way out.

"Hey, you! Come back here with that!"

Screams of frustration began at this infraction—a rapidly

building whirlpool of motion and noise.

"Get off my feet!"

"Watch it!"

A woman, perhaps in her late fifties, edged away from the

crowd. She was gaunt, clad in tatters, clutching a food dole box

to her sagging breasts. A Younger rushed at her, struck the

woman down, and stole the package.

Impulsively, Parnell took a step forward. But his intended

gallantry wasn't necessary. A horde of hijackers, younger still

than the thief, bored in. They ran their quarry to earth, using

fists and feet cruelly. Violence was breeding more violence, and a

savage fight over the spoils.

Many such miniature combats were taking place now. The

most helpless and the neediest were the first to fall victim. The

aged, the women, the half-starved—their packages were ripped

out of their feeble hands. Even when they cowered and offered no

resistance they suffered. The strong brutalized them despite

their pleas for mercy.

The distributors bellowed for calm, and finally realized the

futility of their attempts. A bit desperately, they struggled to put

the barred gate back in place at the disty outlet. Things quickly

got still rougher as the brawlers fought, not wanting the station

to close. If they could have got their hands on the government

people, they would have dragged them down to the pavement,

beaten them senseless.

Parnell was suddenly very glad he was wearing an

inconspicuous grey suit. He felt a natural urge to defend the

helpless prey of the mob, but that would be suicide. This was a

human jungle now, and survival was the key word.

He moved slowly toward the tall steel and stone sanctuary at

the intersection. Yes, he certainly would like to get Nevin Detloff

out in this crowd—let that little dilettante experience "life" in the

flesh. Detloffs loyal "followers" would probably tear him to pieces

in their rage.

Just a bit further and he'd be clear of the worst of it. All he

needed to do was make it to the Life Sciences Building, and the

safety of that impregnable door. He was a lot bigger and

healthier than most of the rioters. But a pack of jackals could

bring down a lion. They'd already wreaked such terrible havoc.

The grim, evidence lay under the mob's feet. A woman—her hair

a piece of white, dusty fluff against the pavement, her pale eyes

open and sightless. An old man—crawling, seeking a haven,

half-crazed, blood pouring from his scalp.

Then Parnell froze, staring in disbelief. A child! Squirming

between those thrashing legs and staggering bodies. The wild

little human animal looked about furtively. Then that small form

was running… toward Parnell.

The quick movement attracted angry eyes. The child was

carrying a package—one of the food dole boxes.

"Hey! Look what that kid's got!" A broad-shouldered tough

chased the child. One ham-sized hand reached out for that

tangled mop of black hair. It wouldn't be much of a contest. The

man could crush his small target.

The gamin's face filled with supplication and a bony body

collided with Parnell's knees. Tiny fingers clutched him, begging

for protection.

Reflexively, Parnell swung his brief case in a hard, tight arc. It

splatted into the man's temple, sending him reeling. The bully

stumbled sideways drunkenly, into the wall.

"Look! There! He's got something! Hun and that kid!"

Instincts Parnell hadn't known he owned took over. He swept

his free arm about the child and started to run. No point in

worrying about attracting attention. Nothing for it but to race

the last twenty meters, gambling on his long legs and strong

physique. The child was feather light, no burden. But the

drumbeat of small fists was a distraction. "I dropped my box! Go

back, go back!"

"I'll get you another," he growled, loping hard, hounded by

those bloodthirsty yelps behind them.

Parnell's heart thundered with atavistic excitement. His

ancestors must have felt this way, eons before, outrunning an

enraged beast. The child clung like a leech, abandoning

arguments over the lost box. The solid haven of a sixteen-gauge

steel door loomed ahead. Parnell increased his stride, bellowing

his indent to the voice-print circuits. The door sucked upward

and he leaped through, simultaneously shouting, "Cancel and

close."

In the fortress-strong foyer he whirled to face the oncoming

horde. The door's action reversed, slamming it down like a

guillotine blade. But without a victim. The mob was shut

outside, their howls muffled to incoherency. For a moment

Parnell felt cheated. He'd half-hoped one or two of those

barbarians might have been trapped inside with him. A couple

of Detloff's Youngers, cut off from the false courage of their gang.

He was tempted by the thought of giving them a taste of his

knuckles. No, that wouldn't solve anything. Joining them in

gutter tactics was demeaning, and a waste of time and energy.

He put his jangled nerves into lower gear, regarding the child.

He still didn't quite believe this. A child. A filthy little face scant

centimeters from his own. Immense, cunning, dark blue eyes and

a flower bud of a mouth. And a coolly intelligent young voice.

"You said you'd get me another box."

"Yes, I did. And I will. It won't be a dole box, but we have food

here." He set the child down and pointed toward the elevator

tube.

After a moment's hesitation, she walked toward it. Parnell felt

certain "she" was the proper pronoun. The child moved with an

immature yet very feminine grace. She studied the interior of the

tube warily. Then she apparently decided to trust Parnell and got

in. He stepped up beside her and touched the relays. She inhaled

sharply as the tube snapped closed and shot upward.

In retrospect Parnell was incredulous of his own actions. Why

on earth had he taken that terrible risk out there in the street?

He knew why. A child, definitely less than ten years old. How

long had it been since anyone had seen a child that age? Fifteen

years? At least. No, his behavior hadn't been very rational— but

it had been quite human.

As they arrived at the second level his impulsive gesture won

an immediate seconding. Therese had been looking out the wall

of glass fronting the street. Now she hurried to greet him.

"Richard, we saw you and…" She was smiling wonderingly,

afraid the child was a dream.

Parnell brushed the girl's hair. "How old do you estimate she

is, Ter?"

"I'm eight," the girl announced proudly.

Therese gaped in astonishment, as did most of Parnell's staff

now circling the scene. Even Jesse Bliss, a professional cynic, on

busman's holiday from his own lab, gawked. His shock gave

Parnell a fresh opinion of the miracle of this child. Jesse

recovered, scratching his scruffy excuse for a beard. "Imagine,

the infant can count, too. Better than half those hyenas hi that

street."

"Of course she can count," Therese said. She knelt beside the

child and tugged ragged garments into some semblance of order.

The girl bore this maternal attention stoically, bored. Therese

glanced at Parnell, love and gratitude brimming in her hazel

eyes.

"He promised me something to eat," the child said, pointing

at Parnell. "Him. The big man with the yellow hair."

"Richard saved your life, brat," Jesse put in. "Don't you know

that? If he hadn't plucked you out of that melee…"

"You probably had bets with my techs on whether I'd make

it," Parnell said wryly. He looked toward a vid screen. The sound

was muted by a sharply handsome face shifted through a series

of sincere, persuasive expressions. Dark, youthfully masculine

good looks twisting into a theatric mask. "Why the hell have you

got Detloff on that thing?" he demanded irately.

As an abashed tech rushed to switch channels Jesse shrugged.

"They're just studying the competition. We can't plot our

strategy if we don't know what the enemy's up to. Or don't you

consider Detloff and his ravening hordes the enemy?"

"And if I do, what of it? You don't care who wins," Parnell

said. Therese was fussing over the girl. His wife's obvious delight

made the near-escape in the streets worthwhile.

"Well, we all lose in the end," Jesse argued, grinning. The

man's cheerful misanthropism made him a sticky debater.

Parnell played verbal games with Bliss, and at the same time was

annoyed that he let himself be drawn into such time-wasting

nonsense.

"And the futility of that entertains you, doesn't it?" he

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