Shelby Vick - Moult Revolt.pdf - Shelby Vick - widez2

MOULT REVOLT

Shelby Vick

Some of our greatest discoveries are made by accident; the apple falling on Newton's head, the discovery of

vulcanization, Iac and his discovery of antigravity – and a young cluike, and the saving of his race.

– Oglethorpe's Universal Encyclopedia, Volume Ten

Wind whistled and sung through the canyon; it moaned in the distance and hissed between

boulders. Symme relaxed at the edge of a plateau, absorbing all the holy music of the wind. Saving his

race from total extinction was the last thing on his mind. He looked behind him at the semi-transparent

shell from which he had just wriggled free. It was a thin and hollow copy of himself, with a split down to

the abdomen area. The shell trembled in the wind, but did not topple.

"I don't care!" Symme exclaimed. "Custom be damned; this is right for a Moult!" He rolled his head

from side to side and a small, clear piece of his old exoskeleton clattered to the red, flat ground, stirring

a puff of dust. "Never again will I moult with the rest of the Nine. A moult should be private. Special!

Here, my shell will resonate to the holy music, which is as it should be." His mother, Eomme, would be

furious, but Symme would face that later.

In the distance a passenger ornithopter roared along. It had to be in the distance; machinery wasn't

allowed on or above holy valleys -- except for the rocketships, of course, and they flew above the

atmosphere. And the rockets were on a kind of holy mission of their own.

Looking around, the young cluike took a deep breath, expanding his thorax. "My third moult," he

thought. "Six more and I will be ancient."

One of his feet dislodged a small rock. It rolled over the edge and bounced its way down the side.

Click-click. Click-click. Click-click.

In some undefinable but intriguing way it seemed to blend with the wind's holy music.

Symme reached out a slender, nine-fingered hand and picked up another rock. With a graceful

move, he flipped it over the reddish-brown edge and listened.

Click. Click-click. Click.

No, that wasn't right. He plucked another rock from a cluster further away. As he tossed the rock

over the side, he cocked his head and slid back a bony carapace that protected his ear on that side

from the blowing sand, and tuned his senses both to the holy music and the sound of the bouncing

rock.

Click-click. Click-click. Click-click.

Yes, yes! he thrilled. Yes!

"Oh, man!" he declared with youthful enthusiasm, "that is groovy!"

Of course, he did not say "man" with the same meaning a human being would give it. Symme had

never seen or even heard of human beings; he was a young cluike, closer to a cricket in shape,

although his body was over six feet long. It was covered by a thin but strong exoskeleton that was a

shiny brown casing with joints that allowed flexibility of movement; the six angular and slim legs could be

folded up and recessed inside the shell when necessary, as in flight. A row of nine short spurs

protruded from his back. The neckless head could shift up, down or side-to-side, giving him a wide

range of vision. So when Symme said "man", he was referring to those of his own kind.

"Groovy" is the closest equivalent in our language to express his adolescent verve.

His "moult revolt" had suddenly lost its' importance. Being careful to exactly duplicate his earlier

toss, Symme propelled another pebble over the edge, then another and another, his excitement

growing. Repeatedly he heard: Click-click. Click-click. Click-click.

"I've got to tell the rest of my Nine!" he declared, and excitedly launched himself into the air. Four

wingsets extended themselves from his sides, each of four panels; the brown leading edge of the first

panel was the stronger part that covered the three other panels when they were at rest. The other three

panels were thin semi-transparent membrane of unusual strength.

As he flew, the adolescent cluike clapped his hands together in rhythm to the holy music made by

his wings. Click-click. Click-click. Click-click.

He had no idea this would lead, eventually, to the salvation of his race.

In one recess of his mind, as he thought of the others of the Nine, he remembered his concern

about leaving them out of the Moult Ceremony; after all, it was supposed to be a ceremony for the

entire Nine. Yet they were his Nine; all of the same egg cluster, all the same blood. They would surely

all understand.

...All except Lomme. Lomme was some kind of throw-back. Others of his Nine were modern, even

ahead of their time; Lomme was a slave to custom, to boring routine, to dull tradition.

Just like Eomme.

He clapped his hands again. Click-click. He'd deal with Lomme and Eomme later. This was greater

than all of them! Click-click. Click-click.

Inspired to fervent joy by his discovery, Symme dove towards the ground and then pulled up to fly a

loop, humming as he went, and clapping. "Just wait till I tell the group -- show the group," he thought, in

joyous anticipation.

"You're telling me our race is doomed," Eomme said to the director. She said it with forced calm,

forcing the appearance of calm not so much because of his information, but because of her dislike for

the person in front of her. She disliked the theory proposed, but not as much as she disliked the

proposer of the theory. He was one who worked only from facts, who eschewed emotion and -- even

worse -- seemed to be an atheist. His office was windowless, not allowing the holy music to enter. He

did not hum.

The director nodded. "We're over-breeding."

"But we've been selecting only one nine-cluster out of each rack of eggs! We store the remaining

eggs."

"Even so," the director agreed, calmly, "there is only so much storage space on our world. Stacks

of stored racks reach up to the limit of our atmosphere, and already cover over one-half of our living

space. Thanks to rockets, we can even pile eggs above the atmosphere -- but our control of the rockets

is limited, so we just have to drop the racks and let them pile up. That isn't nearly as efficient as stacks,

and the piles will, one day, become unstable. We are very long-lived and breed every nine years. Add

it up yourself."

Eomme paused in thought, then suddenly said, "The moons!"

The director looked questioningly at her.

"We have nine moons above us! If the rockets can fly so high, why not send them to our moons with

eggs?"

With a sigh, the director shook his head. "As I said, we can't control our rockets that accurately.

We could guess at where a moon would be when we got there, but the odds are we could miscalculate.

Much fuel would be used adjusting course. The rocket could well end up stranded on a moon, so that

we would lose rocket and crew."

"...Why not send the rocket by remote control?" Lomme asked after another pause. "That wouldn't

risk the lives of the crew."

"And then what?" the director asked, both sarcasm and curiosity in his manner. "We do not have an

endless amount of material to build rockets, you know. Further, what is the point of sending the eggs to

the moon if we cannot recover them? Isn't future use the purpose of all this storage?"

"What do you propose we do?" she asked, irritated at having her idea discarded in so casual a

manner, then added sarcastically, "destroy our eggs?"

"That would be one solution," the director said, calmly.

"What?" Eomme stiffened with indignity. "That would be murder!"

The director lifted his forearms, indicating a shrug. "It would be suicide not to -- if no other

alternative presents itself." He hastily held out his hands to placate Eomme, whose wing-cases were

lifting in outrage. "That is what we must explore," he continued, with his voice still calm. "We must look

for alternatives."

He did not calm her. "Look for them. Find them!" she snapped, then turned and left.

When Symme reached home, he was exposed to a similar fury. "You moulted without us!" Lomme

exploded, quivering with anger. "You slipped off in the middle of the night and moulted alone!" She

made it sound worse than mass murder.

The Nine were in their grassy back yard, a yard surrounded by high walls that simulated valley

sides. Lomme was near one wall as she verbally accosted Symme. "Just because you hatched a day

earlier than the rest of us," she continued, "you think you can do anything!"

"But it was wonderful!" Symme protested. "I was there with the wind and the holy music, and then

the music sang through my empty shell."

"Selfish!" Lomme accused him. "All you care about is yourself. You wanted the pleasure all alone."

The group was humming agreement with Lomme, but their music was soft...almost quiet.

"We should all do it alone," Symme proclaimed. "It's -- well, it's just great!"

Lomme took a pose of shocked disbelief. "You sound like you want to separate the Nine!" she said.

"You want us to all be singles!"

"No -- no, you don't understand," Symme disagreed. He reached for the powerful feeling his

discovery had given him. "Our Moult is something that happens to each of us. Others might be around,

but it is an individual thing. And it gives you not only rebirth, but insight." He looked around. There was

Gamme; he had been a constant companion, and followed Symme's lead most of the time. Gamme had

a confused look about him, and Symme understood; he wanted to follow Symme's lead, but felt left out

-- Symme hadn't told him about his private moulting idea, hadn't taken Gamme into his confidence.

"Gamme, you must do yours alone, too," he said earnestly. "But you must take the new music with

you."

"New music?" Gamme asked. His curiosity overcame his uncertainty, swung him back into Symme's

camp.

"`New music?'" Lomme repeated scornfully. "There is no new music!" she declared. "Holy music

is...well, it's holy music, and that's all there is to it."

"No!" Symme exclaimed. "The moons in the sky change, the world changes -- and the music can

change. I heard it!"

No one was humming, now; he had their attention. "It happened at the end of my Moult. I can show

you!" he said.

"You don't `show' the holy music," Lomme snapped. "The music is, and that's all there is to it."

"No!" Symme disagreed. "We hum the music all the time, Lomme." His gaze took in all the group.

"This is something you all have to experience," he said, his eagerness returning, "and I can

demonstrate it right now! Everybody hum The Valley Wind, and I'll show you."

Gamme and a couple of the others started off. More joined them, until Lomme was the only one not

humming. "Come on, Lomme," Symme urged. "Take part in this; experience it."

Gamme stopped humming. "Come on, Lomme," he begged. "It won't hurt to take part. Come on."

The word "on" blended in with Gamme's renewed hum.

"Oh -- all right," Lomme muttered, reluctantly giving in. She, too, took up the hum.

Symme waited. He wanted to start immediately, but he also sensed that everything had to be just

right. It had to be just right, but -- he couldn't wait too long. Then --

Now! he thought, and rhythmically began clapping. Click-click, went his bony hands. Click-click.

Click-click. Click-click. That was it! Click-click. Click-click. Yes, he had it now. Click-click. Click-click.

He could tell from the growing attention of the others that they, too, were feeling it. Even Lomme was

relaxing and allowing her whole body to join in.

Click-click. Click-click. Click-click. Click-click.

Gamme began clapping to the same rhythm. One by one the others followed.

Click-click. Click-click.

Soon the bodies of the Nine were swaying in unison. Gamme started lifting his wing casings in time

with the rhythm, and the others moved with him. Symme was ecstatic. "Yes. Yes!" he said. "Yes!"

But then a shadow drifted overhead.

"What is all this racket?" Eomme shrilled. "What is going on here?" She had landed beside the end

wall, and was facing them all.

"Mother, I discovered a new music!" Symme exclaimed with excitement vibrating him. "I heard it at

my Moult."

Eomme glanced quickly around at the others. "Your Moult?" she asked incredulously. "You Moulted

alone -- singly -- by yourself?" Astonishment, laced with strong disapproval, was electric in her words,

her stance, in every display of her body language.

"A Moult should be private," Symme said, then went on before Eomme could erupt. "But this is more

important," he continued ebulliently, eyes bright. "I found a new music!"

"Not, I hope, that cacophony I heard just now!" Eomme exclaimed derisively.

Symme hesitated, some of his enthusiasm dimmed. "Well...yes -- but you didn't give it a chance!"

he rushed on. "You must hear it all; you must!"

"What I must do is go inside and think," Eomme retorted. "There are grave dangers facing us, and I

must try to plan in order that we may overcome them." She brushed through the Nine and strode into

the long, wide entranceway to their home.

Symme decided -- and the others agreed -- it would be best to find a secluded place to practice the

new music.

Written music was as popular as recorded music to the cluike. Recording was no problem, but

Symme had great difficulty with the writing of his new sound. Cluike music had no rhythm, only notes of

various values. Even worse, their system of mathematics was -- naturally -- based on units of nine; his

rhythm was based on units of four. No matter how Symme tried, he could not accommodate his music

to cluike math.

So Symme determined to design a math specifically for his music. Then there would be the problem

of developing a program for the electronic math machine. It was going to take some time but -- once

the program was developed and his music was entered on it -- he could then, using the math machine,

transmit the music around the world; everyone would become familiar with the new music! That made

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