Octavia Butler - Clay's Ark

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Clay's Ark
By Octavia E. Butler
PART 1: PHYSICIAN
PAST 1
The ship had been destroyed five days before. He did not remember how. He knew he was alone now, knew he had
returned home instead of to the station as planned or to the emergency base on Luna. He knew it was night. For long
stretches of time, he knew nothing else.
He walked and climbed automatically, hardly seeing the sand, the rock, the mountains, noticing only those plants that
could be useful to him. Hunger and thirst kept him moving. If he did not find water soon, he would die.
He had hidden for five days and two nights, had wandered for nearly three nights with no destination, no goal but food,
water, and human companionship. During this time he killed jack rabbits, snakes, even a coyote, with his bare hands or
with stones. These he ate raw, splashing their blood over his ragged coverall, drinking as much of it as he could. But he
had found little water.
Now he could smell water the way a dog or a horse might. This was no longer a new sensation. He had become
accustomed to using his senses in ways not normally thought human. In his own mind, his humanity had been in
question for some time.
He walked. When he reached rocks at the base of a range of mountains, he began to climb, rousing to notice the change
only because moving began to require more effort, more of his slowly fading strength.
For a few moments, he was alert, sensitive to the rough, eroded granite beneath his hands and feet, aware that there
were people in the direction he had chosen. This was not surprising. On the desert, people would either congregate
around water or bring water with them. On one level, he was eager to join them. He needed the company of other
people almost as badly as he needed water. On another level, he hoped the people would be gone from the water when
he reached it. He was able to distinguish the smell of women among them, and he began to sweat. He hoped at least
that the women would be gone. If they stayed, if anyone stayed, they risked death. Some of them would surely die.
PRESENT 2
The wind had begun to blow before Blake Maslin left Needles on his way west toward Palos Verdes Enclave and
home. City man that he was, Blake did not worry about the weather. His daughter Keira warned him that desert winds
could blow cars off the road and that wind-driven sand could blast paint off cars, but he reassured her. He had gotten
into the habit of reassuring her without really listening to her fears; there were so many of them.
This time, however, Keira was right. She should have been. The desert had long been an interest of hers, and she knew
it better than Blake did. This whole old-fashioned car trip had happened because she knew and loved the desert-and
because she wanted to see her grandparents-Blake's parents-in Flagstaff, Arizona, one last time. She wanted to visit
them in the flesh, not just see them on a phone screen. She wanted to be with them while she was still well enough to
enjoy them.
Twenty minutes out of Needles, the wind became a gale. There were heavy, billowing clouds ahead, black and gray
slashed by lightning, but there was no rain yet. Nothing to hold down the dust and sand.
For a while Blake tried to continue on. In the back seat, Keira slept, breathing deeply, almost snoring. It bothered him
when he could no longer hear her over the buffeting of the wind.
His first-born daughter, Rane, sat beside him, smiling slightly, watching the storm. While he fought to control the car,
she enjoyed herself. If Keira had too many fears, Rane had too few. She and Keira were fraternal twins, different in
appearance and behavior. Somehow, Blake had slipped into the habit of thinking of the hardier, more impulsive Rane
as his younger daughter.
A gust of wind slammed into the car broadside, almost blowing it off the road. For several seconds, Blake could see
nothing ahead except a wall of pale dust and sand.
Frightened at last, he pulled off the road. His armored, high-suspension Jeep Wagoneer was a hobby, a carefully
preserved relic of an earlier, oil-extravagant era. It had once run on one-hundred-percent gasoline, though now it used
ethanol. It was bigger and heavier than the few other cars on the road, and Blake was a good driver. But enough was
enough-especially with the girls in the car.
When he was safely stopped, he looked around, saw that other people were stopping too. On the other side of the
highway, ghostly in the blowing dust and sand, were three large trucks- expensive private haulers, carrying God-knew-
what: anything, from the household possessions of the wealthy, who could still afford the archaic luxury of moving
across country, to the necessities of the few remaining desert enclaves and roadside stations, to illegal drugs, weapons,
and worse. Several yards ahead, there was a battered Chevrolet and a new little electric something-or-other. Far behind,
he could see another private hauler parked at such a strange angle that he knew it had come off the highway barely
under control. Only a few thrillseekers in aging tour buses continued on.
From out of the desert over a dirt road Blake had not previously noticed came another car, making its way toward the
highway. Blake stared at it, wondering where it could have come from. This part of the highway was bordered on both
sides by some of the bleakest desert Blake had ever seen-worn volcanic hills and emptiness.
Incongruously, the car was a beautiful, old, wine-red Mercedes-the last thing Blake would have expected to see coming
out of the wilderness. It drove past him on the sand, traveling east, though the only lanes open to it carried westbound
traffic. Blake wondered whether the driver would be foolish enough to try to cross the highway in the storm. He could
see three people in the car as it passed but could not tell whether they were men or women. He watched them disappear
into the dust behind him, then forgot them as Keira moaned in her sleep.
He looked at her, felt rather than saw that Rane also turned to look. Keira, thin and frail, slept on.
"Back in Needles," Rane said, "I heard a couple of guys talking about her. They thought she was so pretty and fragile."
Blake nodded. "I heard them too." He shook his head. Keira had been pretty once-when she was healthy, when she
looked so much like her mother that it hurt him. Now she was ethereal, not quite of this world, people said. She was
only sixteen, but she* had acute myeloblastic leukemia-an adult disease-and she was not responding to treatment. She
wore a wig because the epigenetic therapy that should have caused her AML cells to return to normal had not worked,
and her doctor, in desperation, had resorted to old-fashioned chemotherapy. This had caused most of her hair to fall out.
She had lost so much weight that none of her clothing fit her properly. She said she could see herself fading away.
Blake could see her fading, too. As an internist, he could not help seeing more than he wanted to see.
He looked away from Keira and out of the corner of his eye he saw something bright green move at Rane's window.
Before he could speak, a man who seemed to come from nowhere tore open her door, which had been locked, and
moved to shove his way in beside Rane.
The man was quick, and stronger than any two men should have been, but he was also slightly built and off-balance.
Before he could regain his balance, Rane screamed an obscenity, drew her legs back against her body, and spring-
released them so that they slammed into his abdomen.
The man doubled and fell backward onto the ground, his green shirt flapping in the wind. Instantly another man took
his place. The second man had a gun.
Frightened, Rane drew back against Blake, and Blake, who had reached for his own automatic rifle sheathed diagonally
on the door next to him, froze, staring at the intruder's gun. It was not aimed at him. It was aimed at Rane.
Blake raised his hands, held them in midair, clearly empty. For a long moment, he could not speak. He could only stare
at the short, dull black carbine leveled at his daughter.
"You can have my wallet," he said finally. "It's in my pocket."
The man seemed to ignore him.
The red Mercedes pulled up beside Blake's car and Blake could see that there was only one person inside now. A
woman, he thought. He could see what looked like a great deal of long, dark hair.
The man in the green shirt picked himself up and drew a handgun. Now there were two guns, both aimed at Rane. Thug
psychologists. The green-shirted one walked around the car toward Blake's side.
"Touch the lock," the remaining one ordered. "Just the lock. Let him in."
Blake obeyed, let Green Shirt open the door and take the rifle. Then, in an inhumanly swift move, the man reached
across Blake and ripped out the phone. "City rich!" he muttered contemptuously as Blake realized what he had done.
"City slow and stupid. Now take out the wallet and give it to me."
Blake handed his wallet to Green Shirt, moving slowly, watching the guns. Green Shirt snatched the wallet, slammed
the door, and went back to the other side where the two cars together offered some protection from the wind. There, he
opened the wallet. Surprisingly, he did not check the cash compartment, though Blake actually had over two thousand
dollars. He liked to carry small amounts of cash when he traveled. Green Shirt flipped through Blake's computer cards,
pulled out his Palos Verdes Enclave identification.
"Doctor," he said. "How about that. Blake Jason Maslin, M.D. Know anybody who needs a doctor, Eli?"
The other gunman gave a humorless laugh. He was a tall, thin black man with skin that had gone gray with more than
desert dust. His health may have been better than Keira's, Blake thought, but not by much.
For that matter, Green Shirt, shorter and smaller-boned, did not look healthy himself. He was blond, tanned beneath his
coating of dust, though his tan seemed oddly gray. He was balding. His gun shook slightly in his hand. A sick man.
They were both sick-sick and dangerous.
Blake put his arm around Rane protectively. Thank God Keira had managed to sleep through everything so far.
"What is this, anyway?" Eli demanded, glancing back at Keira, then staring at Rane. "What kind of cradles have you
been robbing. Doc?"
Blake stiffened, felt Rane stiffen against him. His wife Jorah had been black, and he and Rane and Keira had been
through this, routine before.
"These are my daughters," Blake said coldly. Without the guns, he would have said more. Without his hand gripping
Rane's shoulder, she would have said much more.
Eli looked surprised, then nodded, accepting. Most people took longer to believe. "Okay," he said. "Get out here, girl."
Rane did not move, could not have if she had wanted to. Blake held her where she was. "Dad?" she whispered.
"You have my money," Blake told Eli. "You can have anything else you want. But let my daughters alone!"
Green Shirt glanced into the back seat at Keira. "I think that one's dead," he said casually. This was supposed to be a
joke about Keira's sound sleeping, Blake knew, but he could not prevent himself from looking back at her quickly-just
to be sure.
"Hey, Eli," Green Shirt said, "they really are his kids, you know."
"I can see," Eli said. "And that makes our lives easier. All we have to do is take one of them and he's ours."
It was beginning to rain-fat, dirty, wind-whipped drops. In the distance, thunder rumbled over the howl of the wind.
Eli spoke so softly to Rane that Blake was hardly able to hear. "Is he your father?"
"You just admitted he was," Rane said. "What the hell do you want?"
Eli frowned. "My mother always used to say Think before you speak.' Your mother ever say anything like that to you,
girl?"
Rane looked away, silent.
"Is he your father?" Eli repeated.
"Yes."
"And you wouldn't want to see him get hurt, would you?"
Rane continued to look away, but could not conceal her fear. "What do you want?"
Ignoring her, Eli held his hand out to Green Shirt. After a moment, Green Shirt gave him the wallet. "Blake Jason
Maslin," he read. "Born seven-four-seventy-seven. 'Oh say can you see.' " He looked at Rane. "What's your name,
baby?"
Rane hesitated, no doubt repelled by the casual "baby." Normally she tore into people who seemed to be patronizing
her. "Rane," she muttered finally. Thunder all but drowned her out.
"Rain? Like this dirty stuff falling on us now?"
"Not rain, Rah-ney. It's Norwegian."
"Is it now? Well, listen, Rane, you see that woman over there?" He pointed to the red Mercedes alongside them. "Her
name is Meda Boyd. She's crazy as hell, but she won't hurt you. And if you do what we tell you and don't give us
trouble, we won't hurt your father or your sister. You understand?"
Rane nodded, but Eli continued to look at her, waiting.
"I understand!" she said. "What do you want me to do?"
"Go get in that car with Meda. She'll drive you. I'll follow with your father."
Rane looked at Blake. He could feel her trembling. "Listen," he began, "you can't do this! You can't just-"
Green Shirt placed his gun against Pane's temple. "Why not?" he asked.
Blake jerked Rane away. It was a reflex, a chance he would never have taken if he had had time to think about it. He
pulled her head down against his chest.
At the same moment, Eli pulled Green Shirt's gun hand away, twisting it so that if the gun had gone off, the bullet
would have hit the windshield.
The gun did not go off. It should have, Blake realized later, considering Green Shirt's tremor and the suddenness of
Eli's move. But all that happened was some sort of brief, wordless exchange between Eli and Green Shirt. They looked
at each other -first with real anger, then with understanding and a certain amount of sheepishness.
"You'd better drive," Eli said. "Let Meda watch the kid."
"Yeah," Green Shirt agreed. "The past catches up with you sometimes."
"You okay?"
"Yeah."
"She's a strong girl. Good material."
"I know."
"Good material for what?" Blake demanded. He had released Rane, but she stayed close to him, watching Eli.
"Look, Doc," Eli said, "the last thing we want to have to do is kill one of you. But we don't have much time or
patience."
"Let my daughters stay with me," Blake said. "I'll cooperate. I'll do anything you want. Just don't-"
"We're leaving you one. Don't make us take them both."
"But-"
"Ingraham, get the other kid out here. Get her up."
"No!" Blake shouted. "Please, she's sick. Let her alone!"
"What? Carsick?"
"My sister has leukemia," Rane said. "She's dying. What are you going to do? Help her along?"
"Rane, for God's sake!" Blake whispered.
Eli and the green-shirted Ingraham looked at each other, then back at Blake. "I thought they could cure that now," Eli
said. "Don't they have some kind of protein medicine that reprograms the cells?"
Blake hesitated, wondering how much pity the details of Keira's illness might evoke in the gunmen. He was surprised
that Eli knew as much as he did about epigenetic therapy. But Eli's knowledge did not matter. If he was not moved by
Keira's imminent death, nothing else was likely to touch them. "She's receiving therapy," he said.
"And it isn't enough?" Ingraham asked.
Blake shrugged. It hurt to say the words. He could not recall ever having said them aloud.
"Shit." Ingraham muttered. "What are we supposed to do with a kid who's already-"
"Shut up," Eli said. "If we've made a mistake, it's too late to cry about it." He glanced back at Keira, then faced Blake.
"Sorry, Doc. Her bad luck and ours." He sighed. "Well, you take the good with the bad. We won't hurt her-if you and
Rane do as you're told."
"What are you going to do with us?" Blake asked.
"Don't worry about it. Come on, Rane. Meda's waiting."
Rane clung to Blake as she had not for years.
Eli gazed at her steadily, and she stared back but would not move. "Come on, kid," he said softly. "Do it the easy way."
Blake wanted to tell her to go-before these people hurt her. Yet the last thing he wanted her to do was leave him. He
was terrified that if they took her, he would never get her back. He stared at the two men. If he had had his gun, he
would have shot them without a thought.
"Use your head, Doc," Eli said. "Just slide over to the passenger side. I'll drive. You keep your eyes on Rane. It will
make you feel better. Make you act better, too."
Abruptly, Blake gave in, moved over, pushing Rane. He wanted to believe the gray-skinned black man. It would have
been easier to believe him if Blake had had some idea what these people wanted. They were not just one of the local car
gangs, obscenely called car families. No one had looked at the money in his wallet. In fact, as he thought about the
wallet, Eli tossed it onto the dashboard as though he were finished with it. Were they after more money? Ransom?
They did not sound as though they were. And they seemed strangely resigned, as though they did not like what they
were doing-almost as though they were under the gun themselves.
Blake hugged Rane. "Watch yourself," he said, trying to sound steadier than he felt. "Be more careful than you usually
are -at least until we find out what's going on."
Blake watched Ingraham follow Rane through the muddy downpour, watched her get into the red Mercedes. Ingraham
said a few words to the woman, Meda, then exchanged places with her.
When that was done, Eli relaxed. He thrust his gun into his jacket, walked around the Wagoneer as casually as an old
friend, and got in. It never occurred to Blake to try anything. Part of himself had walked away with Rane. His stomach
churned with anger, frustration, and worry.
After a moment of spinning its wheels, the Mercedes leaped forward, shot all the way across the highway, and onto
another dirt road. The Wagoneer followed easily. Eli patted its dashboard as though it were alive. "Sweet-running car,"
he said. "Big. You don't find them this size any more. Too bad."
"Too bad?"
"Strongest-looking car we saw parked along the highway. We didn't want some piece of junk that would stall or get
stuck on us. One tank full and the other nearly full of ethanol. Damn good. We make ethanol."
"You mean it was my car you wanted?"
"We wanted a decent car with two or three healthy, fairly young people in it." He glanced back at Keira. "You can't win
'em all."
"But why?"
"Doc, what's the kid's name?" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Keira.
Blake stared at him.
"Tell her she can get up. She's been awake since Ingraham took your wallet."
Blake turned sharply, found himself looking into Keira's large, frightened eyes. He tried to calm himself for her sake.
"Do you feel all right?" he asked.
She nodded, probably lying.
"Sit up," he said. "Do you know what's happened?"
Another nod. If Rane talked too much, Keira didn't talk enough. Even before her illness became apparent, she had been
a timid girl, easily frightened, easily intimidated, apparently slow. Patience and observation revealed her intelligence,
but most people wasted neither on her.
She sat up slowly, staring at Eli. His coloring was as bad as her own. She could not have helped noticing that, but she
said nothing.
"You get an earful?" Eli asked her.
She drew as far away from him as she could get and did not answer.
"You know your sister's in that car up ahead with some friends of mine. You think about that."
"She's no danger to you," Blake said angrily.
"Have her give you whatever she's got in her left hand."
Blake frowned, looked toward Keira's left hand. She was wearing a long, multicolored, cotton caftan-a full, flowing
garment with long, voluminous sleeves. It was intended to conceal her painfully thin body. At the moment, it also
concealed her left hand.
Keira's expression froze into something ugly and determined.
"Kerry," Blake whispered.
She blinked, glanced at him, finally brought her left hand out of the folds of her dress and handed him the large manual
screwdriver she had been concealing. Blake could remember misplacing the old screwdriver and not having time to
look for it. It looked too large for Keira's thin fingers. Blake doubted that she had the strength to do any harm with it.
With a smaller, sharper instrument, however, she might have been dangerous. Anyone who could look the way she did
now could be dangerous, sick or well.
Blake took the screwdriver from her hand and held on to the hand for a moment. He wanted to reassure her, calm her,
but he thought of Rane alone in the car ahead, and no words would come. There was no way everything was going to
be all right. And he had always found it difficult to lie to his children.
After a moment, Keira seemed to relax-or at least to give up. She leaned back bonelessly, let her gaze Hicker from Eli
to the car ahead. Only her eyes seemed alive.
"What do you want with us?" she whispered. "Why are you doing this?" Blake did not think Eli had heard her over the
buffeting of the wind and the hissing patter of the rain. Eli obviously had all he could do to keep the car on the dirt road
and the Mercedes in sight. He ignored completely the long, potentially deadly screwdriver Blake gripped briefly, then
dropped. He was a young man, Blake realized-in his early thirties, perhaps. He looked older-or had looked older before
Blake got a close look at him. His face was thin and prematurely lined beneath its coating of dust. His air of weary
resignation suggested an older man. He looked older, Blake thought, in much the same way Keira looked older. Her
disease had aged her, as apparently his had aged him-whatever his was.
Eli glanced at Keira through the rearview mirror. "Girl," he said, "you won't believe me, but I wish to hell I could let
you go."
"Why can't you?" she asked.
"Same reason you can't get rid of your leukemia just by wishing."
Blake frowned. That answer couldn't have made any more sense to Keira than it did to him, but she responded to it. She
gave Eli a long thoughtful look and moved slowly toward the middle of the seat away from her place of retreat behind
Blake.
"Do you hurt?" she asked.
He turned to look back at her-actually slowed down and lost sight of the Mercedes for a moment. Then he was
occupied with catching up and there was only the sound of the rain as it was whipped against the car.
"In a way," Eli answered finally. "Sometimes. How about you?"
Keira hesitated, nodded.
Blake started to speak, then stopped himself. He did not like the understanding that seemed to be growing between his
daughter and this man, but Eli, in his dispute with Ingraham, had already demonstrated his value.
"Keira," Eli muttered. "Where did you ever get a name like that?"
"Mom didn't want us to have names that sounded like everybody's."
"She saw to that. Your mother living?"
". . .no."
Eli gave Blake a surprisingly sympathetic look. "Didn't think so." There was another long pause. "How old are you?"
"Sixteen."
"That all? Are you the oldest or the youngest?"
"Rane and I are twins."
A startled glance. "Well, I guess you're not lying about it, but the two of you barely look like members of the same
family -let alone twins."
"I know."
"You got a nickname?"
"Kerry."
"Oh yeah. That's better. Listen, Kerry, nobody at the ranch is going to hurt you; I promise you that. Anybody bothers
you, you call me. Okay?"
"What about my father and sister?"
Eli shook his head. "I can't work no miracles, girl."
Blake stared at him, but for once, Eli refused to notice. He kept his eyes on the road.
PAST 3
In a high valley surrounded by stark, naked granite weathered round and deceptively smooth-looking, he found a
finished house of wood on a stone foundation and the skeletal beginnings of two other houses. There was also a well
with a huge, upended metal tank. There were pigs in wood-fenced pens, chickens in coops, rabbits in hutches, a large
fenced garden, and a solar still. The still and electricity produced by photovoltaic intensifiers appeared to be the only
concessions to modernity the owners of the little homestead had made.
He went to the well, turned the faucet handle of the storage tank, caught the cold, sweet, clear water in his hands, and
drank. He had not tasted such water in years. It restored thought, cleared the fog from his mind. Now the senses that
had been totally focused on survival were freed to notice other things.
The women, for instance.
He had scented at least one man in the house, but there were several women. Their scents attracted him powerfully. Yet
the moment he caught himself moving toward the house in response to that attraction, he began to resist.
For several minutes he stood frozen outside the window of one of the women. He was so close to her he could hear her
soft, even breathing. She was asleep, but turning restlessly now and then. He literally could not move. His body
demanded that he go to the woman. He understood the demand, the drive, but he refused to be just an animal governed
by instinct. The woman was as near to being in heat as a female human could be. She had reached the most fertile
period of her monthly cycle. It was no wonder she was sleeping so badly. And no wonder he could not move except to
go to her.
He stood where he was, perspiring heavily in the cold night air and struggling to remember that he had resolved to be
human plus, not human minus. He was not an animal, not a rapist, not a murderer. Yet he knew that if he let himself be
drawn to the woman, he would rape her. If he raped her, if he touched her at all, she might die. He had watched it
happen before, and it had driven him to want to die, to try to die himself. He had tried, but he could not deliberately kill
himself. He had an unconscious will to survive that transcended any conscious desire, any guilt, any duty to those who
had once been his fellow humans.
He tried furiously to convince himself that a break-in and rape would be stupidly self-destructive, but his body was
locked into another reality, focused on a more fundamental form of survival. He did not move until the war within had
exhausted him, until he had no strength left to take the woman.
Finally, triumphant, he dragged himself back to the well and drank again. The electric pump beside the well switched
on suddenly, noisily, and in the distance, dogs began to bark. He looked around, knowing from the sound that the dogs
were coming toward him. He had already discovered that dogs disliked him, and, rightly enough, feared him. Now,
however, he had been weakened by days of hunger and thirst and by his own internal conflict. Two or three large dogs
might be able to bring him down and tear him apart.
The dogs came bounding up-two big mongrels, barking and growling. They were put off by his strange scent at first,
and they kept back out of his reach while putting on a show of ferocity. He thought by the time they found the courage
to attack, he might be ready for at least one of them.
PRESENT 4
Eventually, the Mercedes and the Jeep emerged from the storm into vast, flat, dry desert, still following their arrow-
straight dirt road. They approached, then passed between ancient black and red volcanic mountains. Later, they turned
sharply from their dirt road onto something that was little more than a poorly marked trail. This led to a range of earth
and granite mountains. The two cars headed into the mountains and began winding their way upward.
By then they had been driving for nearly an hour. At first, Blake had seen a few signs of humanity. A small airport, a
lonely ranch here and there, many steel towers carrying high voltage lines from the Hidalgo and Joshua Tree Solar
Power Plants. (The water shortage had hurt desert settlement even as the desert sun began to be used to combat the fuel
shortage. Over much of the desert, communities were dead or dying.) But for some time now, Blake had seen no sign at
all that there were other people in the world. It was as though they had left 2021 and gone back in time to primordial
desert. The Indians must have seen the land this way.
Blake wondered whether he and his daughters would die in this empty place. It occurred to him that his abductors
might be more likely to feel they needed him if they thought of him as their doctor. They might even give him enough
of an opening to take his daughters and escape.
"Look," he said to Eli, "you're obviously not well. Neither is your friend Ingraham. I have my bag with me. Maybe I
can help."
"You can't help, Doc," Eli said.
"You don't know that."
"Assume that I do." Eli squeezed the car around another of a series of boulders that seemed to have been scattered
deliberately along the narrow mountain road. "Assume that I'm at least as complex a man as you are."
Blake stared at him, noting with interest that Eli had dropped the easy, old-fashioned street rhythms that made his
speech seem familiar and made him seem no more than another semieducated product of city sewers. If he wished,
then, he could speak flat, standard, correct American English.
"What's the matter with you, then?" Blake asked. "Will you tell us?"
"Not yet."
"Why?"
Eli took his time answering. He smiled finally-a smile full of teeth and utterly without humor. "It was a group
decision," he said. "We got together and decided that for your sake and ours, people in your position should be
protected from too much truth too soon. I was a minority of one, voting for honesty. I could have been a majority of
one, but I've played that role long enough. The others thought people like you wouldn't believe the truth, that it would
scare you more than necessary and you'd try harder to escape."
To the surprise of both men, Keira laughed. Blake looked back at her, and she fell silent, embarrassed. "I'm sorry," she
whispered, "but not knowing is worse. Do they really think we wouldn't do just about anything to get away now?"
"Nothing to be sorry for, girl," Eli said. The accent was back. "I agree with you."
"Who are the others who disagreed?" Keira asked.
"People. Just people like you and your father. Meda's family owned the land we live on. Ingraham . . . well, he was
with a gang of bikers that came calling one day and tried to rape Meda- among other things. And we have a private
hauler and a music student from L.A., a couple of people from Victorville, one from Twentynine Palms, and a few
others."
"Ingraham tried to rape someone, and you let him stay?" Blake demanded. He was suddenly glad Ingraham was driving
the car ahead. At least he would not have time to try anything until they got where they were going-but what then?
"That was another life," Eli said. "We don't care what he did before. He's one of us now."
Blake thought of Ingraham's gun against Rane's head.
Eli seemed to read his thoughts. "Hey," he said, "I know how it looked, but Ingraham wouldn't have shot her. I was
afraid you or she might make a dumb move and cause an accident, but there's no way he would have shot her."
"Was the gun empty?" Keira asked.
"Hell no," Eli said, surprised. He hesitated. "Listen, I'll be this straight with you. The safest person of the three of you is
Rane. She's young, she's female, and she's healthy. If only one of you makes it, chances are it will be her." He slowed,
looked at Blake, then at Keira. "What I'm trying to do is build a fire under you two. I want you to use your minds and
your plain damn stubbornness to make a liar of me. I want you all to survive." He stopped the car. "We're here."
"Here" was a small high valley-a little space between the ancient rocks that formed the mountains. There was a large
old house of wood and stone and three other wooden houses, less well built. A fifth house was under construction. Two
men worked on it with hand tools, hammering and sawing as almost no one did these days.
"Population explosion," Eli said. "We've been lucky lately."
"You mean people have been surviving whatever it is you do to them here?" Blake asked.
"That's what I mean," Eli admitted. "We're learning to help them."
"Are you some kind of ... well, some kind of religious group?" Keira asked. "I don't mean any offence, but I've heard
there were . . . groups in the mountains."
"Cultists?" Eli said, smiling a real smile. "No, we didn't come up here to worship anybody, girl. There were some
religious people up here once, though. Not cultists, just . . . What do you call them? People who never saw sweet reason
around the turn of the century, and who decided to make a decent, moral, Godfearing place of their own to raise their
kids and wait for the Second Coming."
"Leftovers," Blake said. "At least that's what we called such people when I was younger. But this place looks as though
it hasn't been touched by this century or the last one. Looks more like a holdover from the nineteenth."
"Yeah," Eli said, and smiled again. "Get out. Doc. Let's see if I can talk Meda into cooking you folks a meal." He took
the keys, then waited until Blake and Keira got out. Then he locked their doors and got out himself.
Blake looked around and decided that almost everything he saw reminded him of descriptions he'd read of subsistence
farming more than a century before. Chickens running around loose, pecking at the sand, others in coops and in a large
chicken house and yard. Hogs poking their snouts between the wooden planks of their pens, rabbits in wood-and-wire
hutches, a couple of cows. But every building was topped by photovoltaic intensifiers. The well had an electric pump-
clearly an antique-and on the front porch of one of the houses, a woman was using an ancient black Singer sewing
machine. There was a large garden growing over perhaps half the valley floor. And near the two most distant houses
were small structures that might have been, of all things, outhouses.
Blake had turned to ask Eli about it when suddenly, Rane was in his arms. He hugged her, startled that even this strange
place had made him forget her danger for a moment. Now, flanked by both his daughters, he felt better, stronger. The
feeling was irrational, he knew. The girls were no safer for their being with him. Their captors still had the guns. And
they were all still trapped in this isolated, atavistic place. Worst of all, something was being planned for them-
something they might not survive.
"What did you hear?" he asked Rane while Eli was busy talking to Meda.
"I think they're on some weird drugs or something," Rane whispered. "That guy Ingraham-his hands shake when he
isn't using them, and when he is, he has other tics and twitches."
"That doesn't have to mean drugs," Blake said. "What about the woman?"
"Well ... no twitches, but if you think I'm too outspoken, wait until you meet her."
"What did she say?"
Uncharacteristically, Rane looked away. "It wasn't anything that would help. I don't want to repeat it."
Keira touched Rane's arm to get her attention. "Was it about you being more likely to survive than the two of us?
Because if it was, we got that too."
"Yes."
"Plus?"
"Kerry, I'm not going to tell you."
It must have been bad then. There was very little Rane would hesitate to say. Blake resolved to get it out of her later.
Now, Eli was coming toward them, motioning them into the wood-and-stone house. The dark-haired woman, Meda,
came with him, stopping abruptly in front of Blake so that he had to stop or collide with her. She was a tall bony
woman with no attractiveness at all beyond the long, thick, dark brown hair. She may have been attractive once, but
now she had no shape, poor coloring, and not even the sense to cover herself as Keira had. She wore jeans cut off at
mid-thigh and a man's short-sleeved shirt, buttoned to her skinny midriff, then tied. Blake wondered whether Rane
might be right about the drugs.
"For your own sake," Meda said quietly, "you ought to know that we can hear better than most people. I don't usually
care who hears what I say, but you might. Now what I told your kid, what she was too embarrassed to repeat, was that I
meant to ask Eli for you. I like your looks. It doesn't matter whether you like mine. Everybody here looks like me,
sooner or later."
"Jesus Christ," Blake muttered disgustedly. He began to laugh, not meaning to, but not able to stop. "You are crazy," he
said, still laughing. "All of you." The laughter died finally, and he could only stare at them. They stared back
impassively.
"What are you going to do?" he asked Eli. "Give me to her?"
"How can I?" Eli asked. "I don't think I own you. Meda and your kid have a way with words, Doc. With more people
like them, we never would have avoided World War Three."
Blake managed to stifle more laughter. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, and was surprised to find it wet. He was
standing in the hot desert sun, but between his daughters and his captors, he had hardly noticed.
"What are you going to do with me?" he asked.
"Oh, you'll spend some time with her. That can't be helped. I wish it weren't necessary, but she's your jailer-which is
what she was really asking to be. We're going to have to confine you pretty closely for a while, and things will work
out better if your jailer is a woman."
"Why?"
"You'll know, Doc. Just give it a little more time. Meanwhile, for the record, what you and Meda do together is your
business." He turned, faced Meda. "There are limits," he said softly. "You're getting to like this too goddamn much, you
know?"
She glared at him for a moment. "You should talk," she said harshly, though somehow, not quite angrily. She turned
and went inside, slamming the door behind her.
Eli sighed. "Lord, I hope you'll all make it-all three of you so we won't have to do this again soon." He glanced to
where Ingraham stood watching, managed a crooked smile. "You figure she'll feed us?"
"She'll feed me," Ingraham said, smiling. "She invited me to dinner. Let's go in and see if she's set a place for you."
They herded Blake and the girls into the house, somehow communicating amusement, weariness, hunger, but no threat.
It was almost as though the Maslin family had been invited to eat with new friends. Blake shook his head. On his own,
he would have tried to break away from these people-whatever they were -long ago. Now . . . He wondered what his
chances were of getting Eli alone, getting his gun and the car keys. If he didn't move soon, Rane or Keira might be
separated from him again. These people were in such bad physical condition, they had to take precautions.
Abruptly, it occurred to him that a simple precaution might be to drug something they were to eat or drink.
"What are you planning, Doc?" Eli asked as he sat down in a big, leather wing chair.
The house was cool and dark, comfortably well-kept and old. Blake had to fight off the feeling of security it seemed to
offer. He sat on a sofa with his daughters on either side of him.
"Doc?" Eli said.
Blake looked at him.
"I wonder if I can stop you from getting hurt."
"Forget it," Ingraham said. "He's going to have to try something. Just like you'd have to in his place."
"Yeah. Listen, you still have that knife?"
"Sure."
Eli nodded, gestured with one hand. "Come on." "You mark the wall and Meda'll find some way to get you, man."
"I'm not going to mark the damn wall. Come on."
"Don't break my knife either." Ingraham reached toward his boot, then his hand seemed to blur. Something flashed
toward Eli, Eli blurred, and the floorboards beneath Blake's feet vibrated. Blake looked down, saw that there was a
large, heavy knife buried in the floor between his feet. It had hit the wood just short of the oriental rug. He gave Eli a
single outraged glance, then seized the knife, meaning to pull it free. It remained rooted where it was. He pulled again,
using all his strength. Still the knife did not move. It occurred to him that he was making a fool of himself. He sat up
straight and glared at Eli.
Eli looked tired and unamused. "Just a trick, Doc." He got up, walked over, and tugged the knife free with little
apparent effort. With one long arm, he handed it handle-first to Ingraham, while keeping his attention on Blake. "I
know we look scrawny and sick," he said. "We look like one of us alone would equal nothing at all. But if you're going
to survive, you have to understand that guns or no guns, you're no match for us. We're faster, better coordinated,
stronger, and some other things you wouldn't believe yet."
"You think a circus trick is going to make us believe you're superhuman?" Rane demanded. Blake had felt her jump
and cringe when the knife hit. She had been frightened, so now she had to attack. His first impulse was to shut her up,
but he held back, remembering the value Eli had placed on her. Eli might tell her to shut up himself, but he would not
hurt her just for talking. And she might get something out of him.
"We're not superhuman," Eli said quietly. "We're not anything you won't be eventually. We're just . . . different."
"And sometimes you hurt," Keira whispered.
Eli looked at her-looked until she stopped studying the pattern on the rug and looked back. "It isn't like your pain," he
said. "It isn't as clean as your pain."
"Clean?"
"Mine is kind of like what an addict might feel when he tries to kick his habit."
"Drugs?"
"No drugs, I promise you. We don't even use aspirin here."
"I use things, I have to."
"We won't stop you."
"What are you?" she pleaded suddenly. "Please tell us."
Eli put his hands behind his back, though not before Blake noticed that they were trembling.
"Hey," Ingraham said softly. "You okay?"
Eli glanced at him angrily. "No, I'm not okay. Are you okay?"
Keira looked from one of them to the other, then spoke to Eli. "What is it you're keeping yourself from doing to me?"
"Kerry," Rane cautioned. That was a switch-Rane cautioning. Blake wanted to stop Keira himself, would have stopped
her, had he not wanted an answer as badly as she did.
"Give me your hands," Eli said to her.
"No!" Blake said, suddenly wary.
But Keira was already extending her hands, palms up, toward Eli. Blake grabbed her hands and pulled them down.
"You made a promise!" he said to Eli. "You said you'd keep her safe!"
"Yes." Eli's coloring looked worse than ever in the cool dimness of the room. His voice was almost too soft to be heard.
"I said that." He was perspiring heavily.
"What were you going to do?"
"Answer her question. Nothing else."
Blake did not believe him, but saw no point in saying so. Eli smiled as though Blake had spoken the thought aloud
anyway. He unclasped his hands, and Blake noticed that even they were dripping wet. Diaphoresis, Blake thought.
Excessive sweating-symptomatic of what? Emaciation, trembling, bad coloring, now sweating-plus surprising strength,
speed, and coordination. God knew what else. Symptomatic of what?
"Want to hear something funny, Doc?" Eli said in an oddly distant voice. He held his wrist where Blake could see it
and pointed to a small double scar that looked black against his gray-brown skin. "A couple of weeks ago while I was
helping with the building, I got careless about where I put my hand. A rattlesnake bit me." Eli laughed hollowly. "You
know, the damn thing died."
He turned stiffly and went to the door, no longer laughing.
"Eli?" Ingraham said.
"I got to get out of here for a while, man, I'm getting punchy. I'll be back." Eli stumbled out the door and away from the
house. When Blake could no longer hear him, he spoke to Ingraham. "That did look like a snakebite scar," he said.
"What the hell do you think it was?" demanded Ingraham. "I was there. The rattler bit him, tried to crawl off, then
doubled up a few times and died. We kept the tail. Fifteen-bead rattle."
Blake decided he was being lied to. He sighed and leaned back in silent rejection of whatever fantasy might come next.
"This whole thing is going to be hard on you, Doc," Ingraham said. "You're going to want to ignore just about
everything we say because none of it makes any sense in the world you come from. You'll deny and Rane will try to
deny and it won't make a damn bit of difference because one way or another, all three of you are here to stay."
PAST 5
The dogs were winning.
They had attacked almost in unison, furiously, angered by his alien scent. Together, they managed to bring him down
before he could hurt either of them. Then the smaller one, who appeared to be part Doberman, bit into the arm he had
thrown up to protect his throat.
Pain was the trigger that threw him into his changed body's version of overdrive. Moving faster than the dogs could
follow, he rolled, came to his feet, locked both hands together and battered the smaller dog down in midair. The dog
gave a short shrieking cry, fell, and lay twitching on the ground.
The larger dog leaped for his throat. He threw himself to one side, avoiding its teeth, but hunger and weariness had
taken their toll. He stumbled, fell. The dog lunged again. He knew he could not avoid it this time, knew he was about to
die.
Then there was a thunderous sound-a shot, he realized. The dog landed awkwardly, unhurt, but startled by the sound.
There was human shouting. Someone pulled the dog back before it could renew its attack.
He looked up and saw a man standing over him, holding an old shotgun. In that brief moment, he noted that the man
was frightened both of him and for him, that the man did not want to do harm, but certainly would in self-defense, that
this man, according to his body language, would not harm anything helpless.
That was enough.
He let his weariness, hunger, and pain take him. Leaving his abused body to the care of the stranger with the out-of-
date conscience and the old-fashioned shotgun, he passed out.
When he came to, he was in a big, cool, blue-walled room, lying in a clean, comfortable bed. He smiled, lay still for a
while, taking mental inventory of his already nearly healed injuries. His arm had been bitten and torn in three places.
His hands and arms had been scratched and bruised. His legs were bruised. Some of this was from climbing the rocks
摘要：

Clay'sArkByOctaviaE.ButlerPART1:PHYSICIANPAST1Theshiphadbeendestroyedfivedaysbefore.Hedidnotrememberhow.Heknewhewasalonenow,knewhehadreturnedhomeinsteadoftothestationasplannedortotheemergencybaseonLuna.Heknewitwasnight.Forlongstretchesoftime,heknewnothingelse.Hewalkedandclimbedautomatically,hardlyse...

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